The Martian Ambassador (9 page)

‘I see,’ said Blackwood. ‘So how did my machine become infected with an ætherial virus? I thought you fellows had taken great pains to avoid such an occurrence.’

‘We did, sir, I assure you! But the one that came through when you connected to the Æther... well, that was a monstrously powerful one. It flooded the processing chamber and swept my colleagues back to Faerie in an instant! There was nothing we could do in the face of its hideous potency.’

‘Why weren’t you swept back to Faerie along with the others?’ asked Sophia.

‘I managed to escape into this room through the maintenance hatch in the side of the cogitator. I couldn’t allow myself to be sent back... I had to stay here. I couldn’t leave Mr Blackwood!’

‘You couldn’t leave Mr Blackwood,’ Sophia echoed, shaking her head at her host in such a sad and admonitory fashion that he averted his eyes in embarrassment. ‘Even though you could do nothing to help, and might very well have been destroyed along with him... you stayed.’

‘That I did, ma’am,’ Shanahan replied, with a furtive glance at Blackwood.

‘I think perhaps you owe our little friend here an apology, sir,’ said Sophia.

Blackwood opened his mouth to protest, caught the look in Sophia’s eyes, and thought better of it. In any event, the odd little chap
had
shown remarkable courage. ‘Oh, very well,’ he sighed. ‘I apologise for my earlier behaviour, Mr Shanahan. I acted peremptorily, and without due thought to the reality of the situation.’

Shanahan stood up and bowed to him. ‘Your apology is gladly accepted, sir!’

‘Can you tell me what kind of virus came through?’

‘From the looks of it, sir, it was a djinn, summoned by means of Arabian Star Magick.’

Sophia gasped, and put her free hand up to her mouth.

‘Good grief,’ said Blackwood, glancing at the dustpan containing the shards of glass. ‘Star Magick... the most powerful and dangerous form of magick known to man.’

‘And it was meant for you, sir,’ said Shanahan.

Blackwood glanced at him. ‘What? How do you know that?’

‘This was no ordinary ætherial virus, sir. The djinn was summoned with the express purpose of destroying you, by someone with a profound knowledge of Arabian Star Magick. I know about these things, Mr Blackwood. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Yes,’ Blackwood murmured. ‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’

‘But who would want to do such a beastly thing to you?’ asked Sophia, appalled.

Blackwood gave a humourless laugh. ‘In my line of work, Lady Sophia, one makes more than one’s fair share of enemies... although I must admit that the timing is most intriguing.’

‘The case you’re working on at the moment,’ Sophia said.

‘Yes. Has Grandfather told you about it?’

‘He has. And it is the very reason I came to you today.’

Blackwood stood up. ‘We clearly have much to discuss, your Ladyship, but we will have to do so
en route
.’

‘
En route
? To where?’

‘To Cottingley’s Cogitators of Mayfair.’

‘Are you... going to tell them what happened here?’ asked Shanahan tremulously.

‘Of course I am, sir! If I can get to the bottom of this, I may be a step closer to a solution to the other matter.’ Blackwood looked at the Helper, and continued in a softer tone, ‘But you may be assured, Mr Shanahan, that I will comment favourably on your conduct.’

Shanahan heaved a tiny sigh of relief. ‘I’m much obliged to you. Things wouldn’t have gone well with me, otherwise.’

‘How so?’ asked Sophia.

‘It never looks good when a Helper loses an operator. In fact, when it does happen, the chances of keeping one’s job are slim to say the least – in
this
world, that is.’

‘Then we shall do our very best to ensure your continued employment,’ said Sophia, rising from her chair. ‘In the meantime, what do you wish to do?’

‘I would like to come with you, if I may,’ said Shanahan. ‘In fact, I really should show my face there, after what has happened.’ He looked at the ruined cogitator and shook his head despondently.

Blackwood looked from Shanahan to Sophia. ‘Very well,’ he sighed.

Blackwood was surprised when Shanahan declined to join them in the hansom. However, when the Helper said that he would go on ahead and would see them at Cottingley’s, promptly vanishin in a puff of lilac smoke, Blackwood remembered that faeries did not need to take cabs.

He helped Sophia up the steps and joined her on the seat, calling their destination up to the driver as he did so. As the cab pulled away from the curb and began its clattering journey to Mayfair, Blackwood placed the large black valise which he had procured from his dressing room, and into which he had put the cogitator, on his knee and said, ‘Perhaps you should tell me a little about your conversation with Grandfather and your involvement with the present matter, your Ladyship. And let us converse quietly,’ he added, indicating the unseen cab driver with an upward glance.

‘Very well, Mr Blackwood. For some time, we at the Society for Psychical Research have been investigating the activities of the villain known as Spring-Heeled Jack...’

Blackwood immediately recalled his conversation with Peter Meddings the previous day and made a dismissive sound.

‘I’m well aware that many people consider Jack to be no more than a figment of ill-educated and over-active imaginations,’ Sophia continued pointedly. ‘But I can assure you, sir, that he is quite real and every bit as evil and dangerous as the reports claim.’

‘Indeed,’ muttered Blackwood.

‘In fact, I can personally attest to his savagery...’

Blackwood glanced at her. ‘Good grief, my dear – you don’t mean to say...’

She shook her head. ‘No, I have not personally suffered at the hands of the brute, but I have spoken to a family of good standing, whose house was laid siege to by him only yesterday evening.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Blackwood decided that it would probably be better to humour the young lady than to contradict her openly, so he asked her to continue.

Sophia related the dreadful incident which had befallen the Alsops and the interview she had conducted with Mr Alsop and two of his daughters. ‘On examining the wreckage of the front door,’ she concluded, ‘I discovered a fragment of very strange metal...’

‘What do you mean “strange”?’

‘It was – how shall I put it? –
iridescent
; its surface displayed very unusual colours. In fact, it was quite unlike anything I have ever seen.’

‘And you believe that this metal fragment came from one of Spring-Heeled Jack’s talons,’ said Blackwood.

‘Indeed I do.’

‘Where is the fragment now?’

‘At the headquarters of the SPR. It is at present undergoing analysis by metallurgists and psychometrists.’

‘Psychometrists? Then you hope to ascertain something of the object’s nature and history through psychic means?’

‘We do.’

Blackwood nodded. ‘I must commend you on your thoroughness, Lady Sophia.’

She threw him a sidelong glance and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Blackwood.’

‘Now, perhaps you would tell me what all this has to do with the assassination of the Martian Ambassador, which, after all, is what you came to see me about.’

‘I must admit that coming to see you was not my idea,’ she replied. ‘My intention in contacting the Bureau was to alert them to the possibility that we are not dealing with some run-of-the-mill ruffian, and that the singular abilities Jack is alleged to possess are quite genuine, as evidenced by the shard of metal which apparently came from one of his talons. Grandfather is intrigued at the possibility that the creature is not of this world and suggested that I join you in your own investigation of Lunan R’ondd’s assassination.’

Blackwood grunted and shook his head. ‘Just like Grandfather...’

Sophia gave him an enquiring look.

‘It’s his habit to make tenuous connections in complex cases such as this,’ he explained. ‘Grandfather has a way of throwing apparently disparate items into the pot, giving them a good stir and seeing what comes out at the end. It’s a curious method, but I must allow that it’s given capital results in the past.’

‘Intuition can be a powerful tool,’ Sophia agreed. Her voice had suddenly grown strange and dreamy; she turned from her companion and gazed through the window at the passing streets.

Blackwood glanced at her, noting that she seemed to have become a little distracted. He wondered at the cause but decided not to pursue it. ‘Timing is everything,’ he continued, ‘and I learned long ago not to believe in coincidence. The death of the Ambassador, the infiltration of my cogitator by an ætherial virus, your evidence for the reality of Spring-Heeled Jack and the possibility that he is not a human being... these things may or may not be connected, but I believe that we should proceed under the assumption that they may well be.’

‘Then you don’t mind my accompanying you?’ said Sophia, her voice still distant.

‘Not at all, my dear. The Society for Psychical Research and Her Majesty’s Bureau for Clandestine Affairs have collaborated on many investigations in the past. There is no reason why they should not do so now – especially since Grandfather has deemed it appropriate that they should. I shall be most interested to see the results of the analysis of that metallic fragment. When do you think they will become available?’

Sophia didn’t reply, and Blackwood turned to her. ‘Lady Sophia?’

She glanced suddenly at him, as if startled out of a profound dream. ‘Oh... forgive me, Mr Blackwood. My mind was elsewhere. You were saying?’

‘About the metal fragment: when may we expect the results of the analysis?’

‘In a day or so.’

Blackwood hesitated before asking, ‘Are you all right, your Ladyship?’

‘I’m quite all right, thank you, Mr Blackwood. And since we are to be working together, I believe that titles may be dispensed with. I should appreciate it if you would call me Sophia.’

Taken aback, Blackwood replied, ‘But we have known each other for barely an hour...’

‘All the same, I would consider it a kindness.’

‘Very well... er... Sophia. And you must call me Thomas.’

She nodded her thanks and returned her attention to the passing streets, again lost in reverie, leaving Blackwood to ponder the rather curious behaviour of his new acquaintance.

*

Cottingley’s Cogitators Limited was situated in Albermarle Street, between one of several art galleries lining the thoroughfare and the Albermarle Club. The club had become rather less fashionable in the four years since the Marquess of Queensberry left his infamous calling card for Oscar Wilde while the latter was holidaying in Monte Carlo with Bosie. Following the conviction of the unfortunate genius for gross indecency, the Albermarle Club had begun its steady decline into disrepute and now claimed only a fraction of its previous members.

As Blackwood and Sophia alighted from the cab, a paperboy walked past on the other side of the road, shouting, ‘
Read all abart it! Full steam ahead for the Greater Exhibition! Martian exhibits arrive at New Crystal Palace! Read all abart it!
’

‘Will you be attending the Greater Exhibition, Mr Blackwood?’ asked Sophia, who seemed to have recomposed herself.

‘Oh, I should think so,’ he replied. ‘Assuming, of course, that we can solve the present problem before then.’

‘I must say that it does promise to put the original in the shade,’ Sophia observed as she approached the shop, which was small and quaint, with a single bay window beside the entrance. Both the door and the window frames were painted a rather fetching shade of bright green. Through the window could be seen the establishment’s wares, arranged on several tiers of polished oak. There were keyboards, scrying glasses and processing engines, all of which displayed admirable craftsmanship. Sophia peered in with undisguised admiration. ‘How marvellous!’ she said. ‘One wonders if there are any limits to science.’

‘There are certainly no limits to the dangers it may invoke,’ observed Blackwood as he opened the door and held it for her.

As they entered, the sales clerk looked up from his task of polishing a scrying glass and said, ‘Good morning to you, sir, madam. How may I be of assistance?’

Blackwood took in the interior of the shop in a single glance – the counter at which the clerk sat, the heavy oak shelves displaying more cogitating equipment that lined the walls, the open doorway in the far wall, leading to a narrow ascending staircase – and replied, ‘Good morning to you. I have a complaint to make, regarding a machine I purchased from this establishment yesterday.’ He hoisted the valise onto the counter and opened it.

The sales clerk, a short, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a long, hooked nose which gave him the appearance of a tropical bird that had fallen upon hard times, took the jeweller’s loupe from his eye and placed it on the counter beside the scrying glass. ‘A complaint, sir?’ he asked with a hint of incredulity.

‘Yes,’ said Blackwood. ‘A complaint. My Tara III nearly drove me insane this morning. It became infected with an ætherial virus of a particularly dangerous and malignant type, which very nearly devoured my mind.’

The clerk swallowed loudly. ‘Good Lord,’ he stammered, peering reluctantly into the valise. ‘Would... would sir and madam mind waiting for a moment, while I fetch the proprietor?’

‘Not at all, my good man,’ Blackwood replied in a measured tone.

The clerk hurried through the door and up the staircase and returned a few moments later, followed by a squat, rosy-cheeked woman in a rather loud pink dress, frosted like a vulgar confection with profusions of white lace around the neck and arms. After introducing herself as Mrs Daphne Cottingley, she said, ‘Mr Jenkins informs me that you have had an unfortunate experience with one of our products... a Tara III?’

‘Quite so,’ said Blackwood.

‘And you are unharmed, sir?’ Mrs Cottingley enquired, with what appeared to be quite genuine concern.

‘Pretty much, no thanks to your contraption.’

Mrs Cottingley produced a fan from somewhere within the folds of her dress, and proceeded to waft it to and fro with agitated flicks of her wrist. ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘This has never happened with a Tara III, I can assure you: the De Danann control system was designed to prevent such malfunctions...’

At this, Sophia nudged Blackwood with her elbow.

‘What? Oh yes. I should inform you that the De Danann Helper showed remarkable courage and fortitude in trying to fend off the virus, but it was far too powerful for him to cope with. I, er, just thought I’d mention that.’ He glanced at Sophia, who gave him a barely-perceptible smile.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Cottingley, who appeared to relax somewhat, ‘the De Danann Helpers are renowned for their conscientiousness.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Blackwood said with some force, not wanting to lose ground to the proprietor, ‘the fact remains that you sold me a dangerous contrivance. Need I remind you that other purveyors of cogitating equipment have fallen foul of the law for the same reason?’

The rosy hue faded somewhat from Mrs Cottingley’s cheeks as she replied, ‘Oh, but sir! We pride ourselves on the safety of our products, and I can provide you with ample testimony to the quality of both the Tara III
and
the De Danann control system.’

‘And
I
can provide
you
with ample testimony to the contrary. The Helper informed me that the thing which came through from the Æther was an Arabian djinn.’

‘Oh, Gawd!’ exclaimed the sales clerk.

‘Shut up, Jenkins!’ snapped Mrs Cottingley. ‘May I ask where the Helper is now, sir?’

With a soundless puff of lilac smoke, Shanahan appeared in the air over Sophia’s left shoulder. ‘Er, here I am, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Mr Shanahan! What the dickens were you playing at, allowing a djinn into the gentleman’s cogitator? Explain yourself!’

Sophia bridled at this, and stepped forward. ‘You may be unaware, madam, that an Arabian djinn is one of the most powerful astral entities known. This poor little fellow and his colleagues didn’t stand a chance against it. The fault
must
lie with the hardware, with the cogitator itself.’

Mrs Cottingley drew herself up to her full (not considerable) height and pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘Well, then! If that is the young lady’s hypothesis, we can certainly test it.’ She glared up at Sophia, turned back to the counter, took the cogitator from the valise and began to examine it. ‘Yes,’ she muttered, ‘we’ll soon get to the bottom of this.’

As the others watched, she opened the door covering the processing chamber and peered inside. ‘Ah, yes, that’s fine... uhum, nothing out of place there... that’s all in order as well... this is all ship-shape and Bristol fashion...’

Blackwood tapped his foot on the floor and glanced at Sophia, who shrugged at him.

‘Oh, just a moment,’ said Mrs Cottingley. ‘Jenkins, hand me your loupe.’

The clerk handed the eyeglass to his employer, who placed it in her right eye and bent close to the opening. ‘Now this is rather odd...’