The sun disappeared and twilight encroached, bringing the first hint of starlight. The waxing crescent moon, soon to rise, would provide little light, which suited him, for he intended to resume his watch over Colonel Bozzo-Corona’s man Albert Lecoq this night.
Gribardsun found the supposed coachman with one of his peers at the stables. Swinging to the roof, nimbly and silently, he crept in an upper window, and swung between the rafters until he reached a spot where he could observe and listen to the two men, Lecoq and Louis Lupin, ostensibly coachmen to Honoré Delagardie. Of the other coachmen, Arthur Blake and Etienne Austin—Sir Percy had rescued the latter from Madame la Guillotine several years ago—there was no sign.
Lecoq and Lupin sat on short wooden stools, a dark lantern on a barrel casting a sliver of luminescence as they played vingt-et-un and spoke in harsh whispers.
“So they suspect the Colonel set up Sir Percy in that de Musard matter, only to then come to the heroic rescue by supplying the Heart of Ahriman?” Lupin asked.
“We don’t believe so, not yet anyway,” came Lecoq’s reply. “Dr. Holmes may be perceptive enough to land on the truth, but I’ve been keeping my ears open, and they don’t seem to have put it together yet.
“But we do believe they suspect us in these bizarre murders,” Lecoq continued. “Sir Percy, and Greystoke, and the rest have become singularly close-mouthed in our presence. As a result, the talks have stalled. The Colonel grows impatient, and speaks of departing within the next few days.”
“Then is all lost?” Lupin implored. “Will we not all agree to give Napoleon the signal, and put an end to this madness in France?”
“Your half-brother has been perfectly positioned, and the time is ripe, it is true, for action,” Lecoq replied. “He can impose stability in France, and on the Continent. The Colonel and the Brothers of Mercy had hoped to protect their flanks by bringing the British in on the plan, and indeed, making them think it was their own idea. But these inexplicable killings...”
“And if the Colonel decides that we are to leave, that the British will not join us?” Lupin asked.
“I imagine he will act anyway, giving your sibling the go-ahead,” Lecoq said. “But it would be better to have the British on our side.”
Gribardsun heard a scrape, so slight that the two Frenchmen would not have been able to detect it. He shifted stealthily in the rafters and identified the source: Arthur Blake, covertly observing Lupin and Lecoq from the main entrance to the stables, and not realizing that he, in turn, was being observed.
This was getting interesting. Gribardsun was sure that Blake had only just arrived; otherwise, he would have detected the coachman earlier.
“Then perhaps we should try to solve the mystery of these ‘ringing bell murders’ ourselves,” Lupin said, “and put a stop to them before any more damage is done.”
“And just how do you propose to do that?” Lecoq asked, skepticism painting his rough features.
“Well...” Lupin turned over his cards.
“Vingt-et-un,” Lecoq declared, revealing his cards with a triumphant grin.
* * *
Arthur Blake left his place of concealment at the main stable door and made for the estate.
Gribardsun decided there was more profit in hearing what the coachman would report to his master. He decamped from the stable rafters, as soundlessly as he had entered, leapt to the ground with the sleek grace of a black panther, and trailed Blake at a discreet distance.
The coachman entered the main house, and Gribardsun took a chance that Blake would seek out Sir Percy in his private study. He scaled the stone walls and once again traversed the roof as easily as if it were the upper levels of the jungle forest he knew so well.
He came to the spot above Blakeney’s private chambers, found a grip, and as he had several other times in the past few days, hung upside down from the gable, with his ear close to the study windows.
Gribardsun’s gamble paid off. He heard Blake knock and his master bid him enter.
As the latter did so, however, it was not Sir Percy who spoke first but Sir Hezekiah Fogg. “Well, Blake, what is your report?”
There was a long pause, and Sir Hezekiah spoke again. “Go ahead, we’ve swept the room for listening devices.”
“Very well, Sir Hezekiah, I’ve just come from the stables,” Blake replied.
“Ah, and what do our French ‘coachmen’ have to say for themselves, cousin?” Sir Percy drawled. Gribardsun heard Blakeney take a snort of snuff.
“Well, as you say, Sir Percy, they’re no more coachmen than I am. But as to what I heard, they’re of a mind to solve these murders themselves. They seem to think if they can do so, it will mitigate some damage, although I missed the beginnings of their conversation and can’t tell exactly what they meant by that.”
“If these Frenchies start meddling,” Sir Hezekiah interjected, “it could ruin everything.”
“Well,” Sir Percy replied, “at least we can be pretty well assured they’re not Capelleans. They don’t seem to recognize that the clangings are caused by a distorter.”
“Or distorters,” Blake said.
“But they wouldn’t admit knowing the sounds if they did,” Sir Hezekiah said.
“True, sir,” Blake said, “but Lecoq and Lupin didn’t know they were being observed, and spoke as if they didn’t know what the tolling was. My opinion is they’re not Capellean.”
“Well,” Sir Percy said, “somebody around here is a Capellean. I’ve never seen or held an actual distorter, but I know the meaning of these clamorous sounds.”
“Aye,” Sir Hezekiah said. “Someone must know you are an Eridanean agent, and that I am an Old Eridanean. For whatever reason, they mean to disrupt the assembly you’ve brought together here.”
“Is it really in the Capelleans’ interest to foment further discord, or rather prevent us from quelling the discord, in France?” Sir Percy asked. “I’m not so sure.”
“What else could it be?” Sir Hezekiah said. “We have the tolling which signals the use of a distorter; murders in which no sign of the culprit can be found, and thus which can only be explained by someone transmitting in and out using a distorter; and the consequent disruption of your secret meeting. The Eridaneans prefer that your conclave succeed. The only logical conclusion is Capellean sabotage.”
“Yes, it makes sense when you put it that way...” Sir Percy said. “Y’know, Fogg, you could give Dr. Holmes some lessons in logic.”
“A brilliant man,” Sir Hezekiah conceded. “Perhaps we should recruit him to the Eridanean cause.”
“Perhaps, someday,” Sir Percy said. “Here and now, we need to prepare for tomorrow. A murder a day. We have to suppose there’ll be another, or at least an attempt, tomorrow.”
“What do you have in mind, Sir Percy?” Blake asked.
“We need to keep everyone together, for the whole day. Everyone within view of everyone else. No demmed transmitting in and out, sight unseen.”
“And...?” Sir Hezekiah asked.
Gribardsun listened to Sir Percy take another snort of snuff.
“I think,” the man who had also been known as the Scarlet Pimpernel said, “that we should get away from Blakeney Hall for a bit. I do believe a carriage ride is in order.”
* * *
Gribardsun’s ebony hair hung in his face, covering his piercing gray eyes, as he sat alone in his room, staring at the floor, brooding.
He reflected back on the other occasions he’d heard the strange clanging, and went over again in his head the conversation he’d just heard. The information he’d gleaned from Blakeney, Fogg, and Blake—these “Eridaneans”—answered many questions and raised as many new ones.
Eridaneans and Capelleans. Some sort of competing secret societies, so-called because their membership, rituals, and purpose were clandestine?
Perhaps related to the Illuminati? The Rosicrucians? These groups were supposedly interested in gathering secret knowledge from all ov
er the world. Listening devices (unknown in 1795) and “distorters” which “transmitted” people or things (unknown even in his own time—although he supposed that his ship, the H. G. Wells I, was, after all, a sort of teleportation device) certainly could be characterized as “secret knowledge.”
He had also heard rumblings, through the ages, whispered in the darkness when the fire fell to crackling embers, of a society, truly secret, in that no one, or almost no one, knew of its very existence. The Nine.
The nine bell tolls that signaled each murder.
His brain raced now, unbidden, and another part of his mind, compartmentalized, knew he was making stream-of-consciousness connections, stitching seemingly unrelated items together into a grand tapestry.
He thought of the importance of the number nine in Khokarsan culture, and of the nine-sided temple of Kho. The Door of the Nine, which gave unto the temple. And the nine primary aspects of Kho.
Gribardsun blinked, shook his head, coming out of his fugue.
He almost had it. Not quite, but it was almost there.
Khokarsa. Africa. thirteen thousand years ago. And the tickling, niggling scent that accompanied each slaying.
He put it aside, not forcing it, and came back to the Eridaneans and Capelleans. Were they secret societies? What other explanation was there? Teleportation technology was extremely advanced. Too advanced, in fact, to reasonably have been developed in this time and place, even by progressive intellectuals operating surreptitiously. The scientific and technological infrastructure just wouldn’t support it.
Extraterrestrials?
Could celestial races be interfering in human affairs? It certainly would not surprise him, given his prior experiences in Africa of exotic plants and the massive crystalline root system—both clearly of alien origin—which had infested large swaths of the continent, leading to the great calamity and the end of the Khokarsan civilization.
But were they extraterrestrials? Blakeney, Fogg, and Blake—the Eridaneans, as they called themselves—seemed fully human and appeared to be on the side of right. And Blakeney was his great-great-grandfather.
Gribardsun decided he’d reserve complete judgment for the future, but would still investigate the ungodly clangings which signaled teleportation—“transmission”—if he came through this tomorrow, and if he heard them again in the future. And he’d put a stop to the strange rivalry between the Capelleans and Eridaneans if he could.
Gribardsun thought about tomorrow, the momentous day. Blakeney had proposed a carriage ride; certainly no one bent on sabotage would propose that.
But if sabotage was the murderer’s object, sabotage of what, precisely?
Sabotage of Sir Percy’s conclave, of his attempt to quell the raging fires in France and prevent them from spreading to the rest of Europe?
Or sabotage of... tomorrow itself?
EAST RIDING OF YORKSHIRE, NEAR THE VILLAGE OF WOLD NEWTON 13 DECEMBER 1795, 2:00 P.M.
True to his word, Sir Percy Blakeney had rousted the inhabitants and guests for a day away from the grim pall that overhung Blakeney Hall.
Two huge carriages leisurely passed through the village of Thwing and turned onto Rainsburgh Lane.
The first was occupied by Greystoke, Tennington, Honoré Delagardie, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and their wives. It was driven by Delagardie’s two coachmen, Lecoq and Lupin.
The second held Sir Percy, Lady Blakeney, and Alice Clarke Raffles, as well as Alice’s sister Violet and Violet’s husband, Dr. Holmes. Rounding out the passengers were Sir Hugh Drummond and his wife, Lady Georgia Dewhurst Drummond. Driving the coach were Albert Blake and Etienne Austin.
Gribardsun—Sir John Gribson, to the carriage party—rode alongside on horseback, as did a physician friend of Holmes, Sebastian Noel. Noel had arrived in the area yesterday and was staying at an inn in the nearby village of Wold Newton, toward which they were now circling back. At the party’s restful pace, the village was perhaps half an hour or slightly more away.
Colonel Bozzo-Corona, Kramm, and Gerolstein had not elected to join the party. The wizened old Colonel had seen Sir Percy and the others off, and before they departed, Gribardsun had overheard them speaking frankly about the situation they faced. The upshot had been that if there was no progress on the negotiations and plans within the next two days, the Colonel and his party would take their leave of Blakeney Hall.
Shortly thereafter, Gribardsun observed Sir Percy speaking quietly to Fogg and de Winter; as the latter two had not joined the carriage party, Gribardsun assumed they had agreed to keep an eye on the Colonel and his associates and ensure no mischief ensued back at Blakeney Hall while the others were absent.
Countess Carody also begged off, to the chagrin of Marguerite and Alice and Lizzie Darcy, claiming too much sun would be unfavorable to her complexion—this despite the enclosed carriages.
At 2:25 P.M., a light cloud cover hovered in the distance. There was a crisp and refreshing chill in the air as the party traversed the gently rolling farmland. Gribardsun rode alongside Sir Percy’s carriage and listened as the baronet pointed out Major Edward Topham’s Wold Cottage in the distance on the left, and regaled his fellow passengers with slightly risqué accounts of the unmarried Topham, the actress Mrs. Mary Wells, and their three surviving daughters, to the accompaniment of many chuckles and some outright laughter. Sir Percy was quick to note the loveliness of Major Topham’s three children, Juliet, Harriet, and Maria.
Blakeney’s tale-telling was affectionate. It was clear he held his friend Topham, as well as his amorous exploits, in high regard. This came as no surprise to the other carriage passengers, who well knew that his lady loves, Lady Blakeney and Alice, were both among the foremost actresses of their day.
At 2:30, nine ominous clangings rang out across the countryside.
The two carriages stopped amidst the uneasy chatter of the occupants, as they attempted to hone in on the source.
After a brief pause, the nine bells tolled again, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere.
While the party, nerves on edge, debated the meaning of the ear-splitting clangor and the wisdom of further investigation, particularly given the presence of the many gravid ladies, John Gribardsun galloped away, leaving the others far behind.
The bells pealed again, and the cycle of nine clangings repeated on a regular cadence as he rode hard down Rainsburgh Lane and turned into the short drive leading to Wold Cottage.
How could anyone, other than himself, know about today? And were they—whoever they were—here to sabotage?
Gribardsun urged his horse on past Topham’s abode. He had come to observe the momentous event of December 13, and now it seemed that someone—whoever was associated with, or causing, the clangings and the murders—might succeed in stopping what history said had happened. Gribardsun had been stalking his prey, getting closer and closer, trying to ensure that each incident, each death, did not result in an alteration in the streams of Time—and now it seemed that catastrophe loomed over him.
What would happen if he failed? Would he just... wink out of existence?
The scientists who had worked on Project Chronos said no, that whatever he or other time travelers did in the past would be a natural part of the fabric of history. Dr. Jacob Moishe, the scientist leading the project team that had invented the time machine later utilized by Gribardsun’s expedition, had demonstrated that if time travel were going to change history, it had already done so.
Moishe, however, had not taken an immortal, now some fourteen thousand years old, into account in his calculations. With that in mind, Gribardsun had tried to keep a low profile throughout history, but on the other hand had been unable to resist selectively intervening—a push here, a tug there—in some key events. Particularly key events that pertained to his own history.
The regular clanging became louder and louder as he closed in on it, heading in the direction of a field past Major Topham’s cottage. He calculated that it was 2:40. Sir Percy’s part
y—the carriages and the horses—were not close to the impact site. Not close enough, anyway.
If they were not there at three o’clock, all was lost.
Gribardsun came over a low rise, making for the field which was empty save for some scattered farmhands. In four years, the field would not be quite so empty; the site would be marked by an obelisk erected by Topham commemorating the event. Gribardsun had visited the site several times, the last in the 2060s.
Then Gribardsun saw Him. Smelled Him. The scent clicked, and he remembered. He looked now the same age as He had then, so long ago.
Thirteen thousand years ago.
10,8 14 B.C. (786 A.T)
John Gribardsun couldn’t believe his nose.
The way other men relied primarily on their sense of sight, and yet often couldn’t believe their eyes, despite the evidence in front of them, he could not believe his nose.
Gribardsun picked up the man’s spoor before he saw him. No two men, or women, had the exact same scent. Each was unique, among billions, and Gribardsun could recognize the distinctive scent signature of a specific human as easily as a normal man would recognize someone he knew and had seen before.
But this scent defied belief. It was impossible. From his personal perspective, it had been over one thousand years since he had encountered the human being with that scent signature. Perhaps his memory was faulty.
And yet he must trust the evidence before his nose.
Gribardsun had come to this area, a jungle thick with vegetation thousands of miles south of Khokarsa, on the unexplored shores of the inland sea, to investigate the uncanny root system which seemed to be infesting much of this part of Africa. He suspected it might now be extending from Khokarsa to these lands, and he had set a tribe of Gokako—a squat and hairy slant-browed group of Neanderthals, very rare in these far southern lands—to excavating key areas in his search for the root system.
Gribardsun knew of the devastation which could and would be caused in Khokarsa by the alien organism—for alien it was—and hoped to prevent the destruction from reaching these lands. He had had direct experience with similar patterns of annihilation caused by the crystalline roots, having lived through a series of shattering earthquakes in central Africa in 1918. The city which would arise here, which would be founded by Lupoeth, a priestess of Kho, was, and would be, very important to him. He hoped to prevent the spread of ruin, the great cataclysm which was inevitable elsewhere, to these lush lands.