The Martian Ambassador (17 page)

By way of agreement, Sophia took a handkerchief from the sleeve of her coat and pressed it to her face.
These poor people!
she thought.
To live one’s entire life breathing this filth.

‘Look,’ said de Chardin suddenly, pointing into the gloom.

Sophia did as he asked and dimly spied a lone figure, small and hunched, standing a little way off in the distance at the edge of the sewer.

‘Come, your Ladyship,’ the Templar Knight said, and together they approached the figure, which, they presently saw, was that of an old woman, beaten down by age and unimaginable hardship into a tiny bundle of rags and bones and withered flesh.

As they drew up alongside her, they saw that the old woman was silently weeping, her tears falling into the river of brown sludge that steamed faintly at her feet. She sighed and shook her head periodically, ignoring the newcomers, lost in her grief.

‘You knew her,’ said de Chardin quietly, for the cause of the old woman’s distress was quite plain.

‘Poor Emily,’ the woman whispered. ‘Oh, my poor little thing!’

She seemed not to notice their presence, seemed to be talking to herself, and so de Chardin added, ‘Emily Taylor… that was her name.’

‘Yes,’ the woman replied, still gazing down into the fetid depths of the sewer. ‘Emily Taylor was her name.’

‘Are you a member of her family?’ asked Sophia quietly. Perhaps it was the sound of another female voice which made the woman look up at Sophia and de Chardin. ‘I’m her grandmother,’ she said. ‘Her parents died when she was a little girl… I did my best to take care of her… but the money… never any money. She worked… you know, on the streets. I didn’t want her to, but she said there was no other way. And now… now, gone!’ Her frail old body was wracked anew with sobs, and Sophia placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘I promise you we shall apprehend the man who did this,’ said de Chardin. ‘We shall apprehend him and punish him with the utmost severity of the law.’

‘Those Martians,’ the woman said, having recovered herself a little. ‘Those foul, beastly things! It’s their fault! They’re the ones that should be punished! “Mars will triumph,” he said. “Mars will triumph!” while he threw my poor Emily down there. And he laughed while she was pulled under. Laughed, he did!’

Sophia cast an anguished look at de Chardin. The tall, powerfully-built Templar Knight looked hazy and indistinct, and Sophia wondered whether it was the presence of the fog or the thoughts of utter helplessness drifting through her own mind that turned him into a phantom rather than a man.

De Chardin leaned forward and whispered in her ear, ‘We should go.’ Then, to the old woman he said, ‘The sewer will be dredged today. We will not allow your Emily to remain there.’ Then he took a note from his wallet and placed it in the old woman’s hand. ‘For flowers, when she is laid to rest.’

The old woman accepted the money, whispering, ‘Bless you, sir.’

De Chardin crossed himself, and then he and Sophia returned to her carriage. ‘This villain’s agenda has begun to work itself out,’ he said as they settled themselves into the seat. ‘Did you mark what she said, your Ladyship?’

‘I did,’ Sophia sighed. ‘In the blink of an eye, she has come to hate Martians, because of what Indrid Cold said. How many others heard him say that as they watched him commit his atrocities?’

‘I fear that question is no longer relevant,’ the detective replied, ‘since it is now all over London, thanks to the papers, and it will only be a matter of hours before it is all over the country. The word will spread like wildfire that the Martians are to blame for these crimes – even though Spring-Heeled Jack looks nothing like a Martian; even though he doesn’t even come from Mars!’

‘We should notify the press immediately, apprise them of the true situation,’ Sophia declared.

De Chardin nodded. ‘Absolutely, although I suspect that the Bureau will have the final word on that matter. Nevertheless, I’m not certain how much good it will do.’

Sophia gave him a questioning glance. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This would be the first the public has heard of intelligent life on Venus. Lord knows, it was enough of a shock when it became apparent that there was such life on Mars! I’m not sure that they will believe it. It’s much easier to tilt at an enemy one can see, an adversary whom one
knows
to exist. Even if we tell the press that this ne’er-do-well hails from Venus, I doubt that it will make any difference.’

‘In that case,’ said Sophia as the carriage began to make its way out of Bermondsey, ‘it is all the more imperative that he be apprehended and his true identity revealed to all!’

*

The carriage took them west, out of London and into the rolling countryside of Hampshire. In spite of the change in their surroundings, Sophia couldn’t shake the feeling of deadly depression that had settled upon her, couldn’t rid herself of the memory of the poor old woman standing on that grimy bank, looking down into the fetid depths that had swallowed her granddaughter.

As if in response to her mood, the lush, verdant landscape gave way once more to the harshness of brick and stone, as they entered the Barracks at Aldershot. Their destination was the Talevara Barracks south of the Basingstoke Canal, which had been named after Wellington’s hard-won victory during the Peninsular War in 1809. Designed to accommodate a battalion of infantry, the Barracks consisted of two large, three-storey buildings facing each other across a wide parade ground.

De Chardin and Sophia presented themselves at the sentry box, stated their business, and were allowed to pass. The Army held the Templar Police in high esteem due to their martial history, and it was therefore a simple matter to convince the Commanding Officer to allow them to interview the soldiers who had encountered Spring-Heeled Jack the previous evening, one of whom was still in the infirmary being treated for face wounds sustained during the altercation.

‘Like a demon from Hell, he was, sir,’ said Private Buckley, his face dressed in bandages. ‘Never seen the likes of him before.’

De Chardin and Sophia took the two chairs which had been brought to his bedside by a nurse. ‘Can you describe him in a little greater detail, Private Buckley?’ asked de Chardin.

‘Oh yes, I can do that,’ replied the soldier with a visible shudder. ‘I’ve seen battle, out in the Sudan, and I don’t mind admitting that I’ve known fear,
terrible
fear; it’s natural, it can’t be avoided, sir, no way, and any soldier who’d tell you different ain’t being truthful. But there’s different types of fear, I’d say. There’s fear of dyin’, o’ course, fear of the enemy that’s tryin’ to kill you… but there’s
another
type of fear, a type I’d never felt before – but I felt it last night.’

‘What type of fear are you talking about, Private Buckley?’ asked Sophia.

The wounded soldier hesitated before replying, ‘Fear of what’s unknown, ma’am,
that’s
the type of fear I’m talkin’ about. The thing that came to the Barracks last night.’ He raised a hand to his ruined face. ‘The thing what did
this
to me… it weren’t no man. And I tell you straight I ain’t
never
felt such a fear before. Like a little boy I was, a little nipper out in the cruel world with no defence against what the world was throwin’ at him, no… no
understandin
’ of it.’

‘Describe him,’ said de Chardin, ‘please.’

Private Buckley sighed. ‘Tall, he was, sir. And built powerful, like a boxer, maybe. And he was dressed in a white suit that looked like it was made of oilskin or something similar. And he had something on his chest, like a box with a light on it… and his face… his
face
…’

‘Go on,’ said Sophia gently. ‘What about his face?’

‘Horrible, it was. Pale and stretched… like the skin didn’t fit proper over the skull. And the eyes, God, those
eyes
. Like a devil’s eyes, they were, full of hatred, full of burning hate! But I think the skin was the worst. I had the feelin’, even while my mates and me was fightin’ with him, I had the feelin’ that it wasn’t skin at all: that it was… I dunno, some kind of
mask
.’

‘A mask?’ said de Chardin, glancing at Sophia. ‘Interesting,’ he added in a whisper.

Private Buckley nodded vigorously and winced at the resulting pain. ‘Yes sir, that’s what I thought. And even while I was lying there, bleeding, I wondered what I’d see if I pulled the mask off…’ The soldier’s voice drifted into silence, but his eyes told eloquently of the horrors he was imagining.

‘Your companions shot at him as he made his escape, didn’t they?’ said de Chardin.

‘Yes sir, they did. But if they hit him, he showed no sign of it, for he bounded off across the fields. I’ve never seen anythin’ like that! The way he leaped, like… like some huge frog! Unnatural, it was. He wasn’t no man.’

‘And the thing he said…’

‘Oh yes, the thing he said. “Mars will triumph!” But he wasn’t no Martian, so I don’t know why he said that… unless…’

‘Unless?’ prompted de Chardin.

‘Unless he’s in league with ’em. Unless they’re plannin’ something. I don’t know. It don’t make no sense… for they’re our friends, ain’t they? I mean, that’s what they
say
.’

‘Yes,’ said de Chardin. ‘That’s what they say, and I’ve no doubt that it’s true.’

‘Then what does it
mean,
sir?’ asked the soldier desperately.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ replied the Templar Knight. ‘Not yet.’

‘Are we goin’ to war with Mars?’ said Buckley.

De Chardin smiled. ‘No, my lad, we are not.’

‘I don’t believe we’d come off very well if we did,’ said the soldier. ‘I’ve heard tell that they’ve got strange weapons: guns that can blow up whole cities, and things that can destroy men’s minds…’

‘Fanciful rumours,’ said de Chardin. ‘The Martians are a peaceful people. They don’t want to hurt us.’

But Private Buckley was no longer listening. He muttered to himself, ‘No, we wouldn’t do very well against that… but neither would they against us! We’d give ’em a good show, by God we would! They wouldn’t walk away without a few bloody noses and black eyes.’

The nurse came over to them. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ she said, ‘but I think Private Buckley needs to rest now.’

De Chardin nodded. ‘Of course. I think we have finished here, anyway.’ He laid a hand on Buckley’s shoulder and said, ‘You’re a credit to the Empire, lad. Get well soon.’

But still the soldier wasn’t listening. He was still mumbling to himself when de Chardin and Sophia thanked the nurse and left the infirmary, fighting an imaginary war which no one else could see, somewhere within the blasted landscape of his mind.

*

They interviewed Private Buckley’s fellow soldiers, but gleaned no further information from them, other than the direction in which Spring-Heeled Jack had headed after his attack on the sentry box. He had disappeared, they said, into the north west, and so that was the direction in which Sophia’s carriage headed, following the lanes that threaded between wide, rolling fields beneath the ash-coloured sky.

‘That poor man,’ said Sophia. ‘He has been quite undone by his experience.’

‘Yes,’ said de Chardin, ‘but he will recover, for I saw great resilience in his eyes, the strength of a simple yet brave soul.’

‘I hope so.’

‘I was intrigued by his impression that Spring-Heeled Jack was wearing a mask,’ de Chardin continued.

‘It would certainly explain the discrepancy between the eyewitness accounts of his appearance and the impressions gleaned by our psychometrists. But why would he wear a mask?’

De Chardin shrugged. ‘Perhaps because, were he to show his true face, people would immediately realise that he is not from Mars.’

Sophia nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

The carriage continued along the lane, which gradually widened until it became the main thoroughfare through a village whose sign proclaimed it to be Furfield.

‘How pretty,’ observed Sophia as she looked out at the ancient but beautifully-maintained buildings: the village shop, the post office and the public house, ranged around a tiny, neatly-tended green. ‘I suspect it would look wonderful in a covering of winter snow…’

At that moment, there was a shattering of glass and de Chardin clutched at his forehead with a grunt. The carriage came to an immediate stop as John reigned in the horses.

‘Detective!’ cried Sophia, as de Chardin took away his hand, which was smeared with blood. She was about to take his head in her hands, to get a better look at the wound he had just sustained, but before she could move, he was out of the carriage and giving chase to a small figure which was running away across the green.

The Templar Knight caught up with the figure almost immediately, seizing him by the scruff of the neck and dragging him back to the carriage. Sophia climbed down as de Chardin held the boy up and examined him, in the manner of a naturalist examining an interesting but violent little animal. ‘Well, my lad! Is it common sport around these parts to throw stones at passers-by?’