“She’s a dummy!” Mallory blurted.
“More a marionette, actually,” Oliphant said. “The proper term is ‘automaton,’ I believe.”
Mallory drew a breath. “I see! Like one of those Jacquot-Droz toys, or Vaucanson’s famous duck, eh?” He laughed. It was now obvious at a glance that the mask-like face, half-shrouded by the elegant black hair, was in fact carved and painted wood. “That blow must have addled my brains. Heaven, what a marvel.”
“Every hair in her wig put in by hand,” Oliphant said. “She’s a royal gift, for Her Britannic Majesty. Though I imagine the Prince Consort, and especially young Alfred, might take quite a fancy to her as well.”
The automaton began pouring drinks. There was a hinge within her robed elbow, and a second in her wrist; she poured whiskey with a gentle slither of cables and a muted wooden clicking. “She moves much like an Engine-guided Maudsley lathe,” Mallory noted. “Is that where they got the plans?”
“No, she’s entirely native,” said Oliphant. Mr. Matsuki was passing little ceramic cups of whiskey down the table. “Not a bit of metal in her—all bamboo, and braided horsehair, and whalebone springs. The Japanese have known how to make such dolls for many years—karakuri, they call them.”
Mallory sipped his whiskey. Scotch single-malt. He was already a bit squiffed from Oliphant’s brandy—now the sight of the doll made him feel as if he had blundered into a Christmas pantomine. “Does she walk?” he asked. “Play the flute perhaps? Or any of that business?”
“No, she simply pours,” said Oliphant. “With either hand, though.”
Mallory felt the eyes of the Japanese fixed on him. It was clear that the doll was no particular marvel to them. They wanted to know what he, a Briton, thought of her. They wanted to know if he was impressed.
“She is very impressive,” he blurted. “Especially so, given the primitive nature of Asia!”
“Japan is the Britain of Asia,” Oliphant said.
“We know she is not much,” said Mr. Yukichi, his eyes glinting.
“No, she’s a marvel, truly,” Mallory insisted. “Why, you could charge admission.”
“We know she is not much, compared to your great British machines. It is as Mr. Oliphant says—we are your younger brothers in this world.”
“We will learn,” said another Japanese, speaking for the first time. He was likely the one called Arinori. “We have great obligation to Britain! Britain opened our ports with the iron fleet. We have awaked, and learnt great lesson you have teached us. We have destroyed our Shogun and his backward bakufu. Mikado will lead us now, in great new progress age.”
“We will be allies with you,” said Mr. Yukichi, nobly. “The Britain of Asia will bring civilization and enlightenment to all Asian peoples.”
“That’s very laudable of you,” said Mallory. “It’s a bit of a hard slog, though, civilization, building an empire. Takes several centuries, you know.…”
“We learn everything from you now,” said Mr. Arinori. His face was flushed; the whiskey and heat seemed to have kindled a fire in him. “We build great schools and navies, like you. In Choshu, we have an Engine! We will buy more Engines. We will build our own Engines!”
Mallory chuckled. The queer little foreigners seemed so young, so idealistic—intelligent, and above all sincere. He felt quite sorry for them. “Well! It’s a fine dream, young sir, and does you credit! But it’s no simple matter. You see, we in Britain have devoted great effort to those Engines—you might well call that the central aim of our nation! Our savants have worked on Enginery for decades now. For you, in a few short years, to achieve what we have done …”
“We will make whatever sacrifice is necessary,” said Mr. Yukichi, calmly.
“There are other ways to improve the homeland of your race,” Mallory said. “But what you propose is simply impossible!”
“We will make whatever sacrifice is necessary.”
Mallory glanced at Oliphant, who sat with a fixed smile, watching the wind-up girl filling china cups. Perhaps the faint chill in the air was only Mallory’s imagination. Yet he felt he had blundered somehow.
There was silence, broken only by the ticking automaton. Mallory got to his feet, his head pounding. “I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Oliphant. And the help of your guests, of course. But I can’t stay, you know. Very pleasant here, but press of business …”
“You’re quite sure?” Oliphant asked cordially.
“Yes.”
Oliphant lifted his voice. “Bligh! Send cook’s boy to fetch Dr. Mallory a cab.”
Mallory’s night passed in sodden fatigue. He woke from a confused dream, in which he argued Catastrophism with the Coughing Gent, to hear repeated knocking at his door.
“A moment!” He flung his bare legs from bed, yawned groggily, and tenderly cradled the back of his skull. His bruise had bled a bit in the night, leaving a pinkish stain on the pillow-slip, but the swelling was down and he did not feel feverish. Likely it was the therapeutic work of Oliphant’s excellent liquor.
Pulling a nightshirt over his perspiring nudity, he wrapped himself in a dressing-gown and opened the door. The Palace concierge, an Irishman named Kelly, stood in the hall with a pair of glum-faced chars. They were equipped with mops, galvanized buckets, black rubber funnels, and a push-cart crowded with stoppered jeroboams.
“What is the time, Kelly?”
“Nine of the clock, sir.” Kelly entered, sucking his yellow teeth. The women trundled in after him with their cart. Gaudy paper labels declared each ceramic bottle to contain “Condy’s Patent Oxygenating Deodorizer, One Imp. Gallon.”
“What’s all this?”
“Manganate of soda, sir, to see to the Palace plumbing. We plan to flush every closet. Clear the Palace pipes out, straight down to the main drains.”
Mallory adjusted his robe. It embarrassed him to appear with his feet and ankles bared before the charwomen. “Kelly, it won’t do a dashed bit of good if you flush your pipes straight to Hell. This is metropolitan London, in a wretched hot summer. Even the Thames stinks.”
“Have to do something, sir,” Kelly said. “Our guests are complaining, most vigorously. I can’t say as I blame them, sir.”
The women funneled a jug of the decoction, which was bright purple, into the bowl of Mallory’s water-closet. The deodorizer emitted a piercing ammoniacal reek, far more vile in its own way than the lingering taint in his rooms. They scrubbed wearily at the porcelain, sneezing, until Kelly pulled the cistern-chain with a magisterial gesture.
Then they left, and Mallory dressed. He checked his notebook. The afternoon’s schedule was crowded, but the morning had only a single appointment. Mallory had already learned that Disraeli’s tardiness made it best to allot him half the day. With luck, he might find time to take his jacket in for French cleaning, or have a barber trim the clots from his hair.
When he went down to the dining-room, two other late breakfasters were chatting over tea. One was a cabinet-man named Belshaw, the other a museum underling whose name might be Sydenham. Mallory couldn’t quite recall.
Belshaw looked up as Mallory entered the room. Mallory nodded civilly. Belshaw gazed back at him with barely concealed astonishment. Mallory walked past the two men, taking his customary seat beneath the gilt gas chandelier. Belshaw and Sydenham began to talk in low, urgent tones.
Mallory was nonplussed. He had never been formally introduced to Belshaw, but could the man possibly resent a simple nod? Now Sydenham, his pudgy face gone pale, was casting sidelong glances at Mallory. Mallory wondered if his fly was open. It was not. But the men’s eyes goggled with apparently genuine alarm. Had his wound opened, was his hair dripping blood down his neck? It did not seem so.…
Mallory gave his breakfast order to a waiter; the servant’s face, too, was wooden, as if the choice of kippers and eggs were a grave indiscretion.
Mallory, growing steadily more confused, had a mind to confront Belshaw on the matter, and began to rehearse a
little speech. But Belshaw and Sydenham rose suddenly, quitting their tea, and left the dining-room. Mallory ate his breakfast with grim deliberation, determined not to let the incident upset him.
He went to the front desk to fetch his basket of mail. The usual desk-clerk was not on duty; taken down with a catarrh of the lungs, his replacement said. Mallory retired with his basket to his customary seat in the library. There were five of his Palace colleagues present, gathered in a corner of the room, where they were anxiously conversing. As Mallory glanced up, he thought he caught them staring at him—but this was nonsense.
Mallory sorted through his correspondence with desultory interest, his head aching slightly and his mind already drifting. There was a tedious burden of necessary professional correspondence, and the usual tiresome freight of admiring missives and begging-letters. Perhaps the engagement of a personal secretary might in fact be unavoidable.
Struck by an odd inspiration, Mallory wondered if young Mr. Tobias of the Central Statistics Bureau might not be just the man for this post. Perhaps an offer of alternate employment would increase the fellow’s daring in the office, for there was much at the Bureau that Mallory longed to peruse. The file on Lady Ada, for instance, should such a fabulous item exist. Or the slippery Mr. Oliphant, with his ready smiles and vague assurances. Or Lord Charles Lyell, the medal-heavy savant chief of the Uniformitarian faction.
These three worthies were likely well above his reach, Mallory thought. But he might well ferret out a bit of data on Peter Foulke: a sinister rascal whose web of underhanded intrigue was ever more manifest.
He would have it all out somehow; Mallory felt quite sure of that, as he shuffled through his mail-basket. The whole occulted business would slowly emerge, like bones chipped from their bed of shale. He had glimpsed the closeted skeletons of the Rad elite. Now, given time and a chance to work, he would wrench the mystery whole from its stony matrix.
His attention was caught by a most unusual packet. It was of non-standard dimensions, rather blocky and square, and it bore a colorful set of French express-stamps. The ivory-yellow envelope, astonishingly slick and stiff, was of a most unusual water-proof substance, something like isinglass. Mallory took out his Sheffield knife, selected the smallest of several blades, and worried the thing open.
The interior bore a single French Engine-card, of the Napoleon gauge. Mallory, with growing alarm, shook the card free, onto the table-top. He did this with some difficulty, for the slick interior of the envelope was queerly damp. It was dewy with a chemical moisture, giving off an increasingly virulent stench as it was exposed to air.
The card, a blank without holes, bore a neat block of tiny black print, all in capitals.
TO DR. EDWARD MALLORY, PALACE OF PALEONTOLOGY, LONDON: YOU ARE IN GUILTY POSSESSION OF A PROPERTY STOLEN AT EPSOM. YOU WILL RETURN THIS PROPERTY TO US, WHOLE AND COMPLETE, FOLLOWING THE ORDERS GIVEN YOU IN THE PERSONAL NOTICES COLUMNS OF THE LONDON DAILY EXPRESS. UNTIL WE RECEIVE THIS PROPERTY, YOU WILL SUFFER A VARIETY OF DELIBERATE PUNISHMENTS, CULMINATING, IF NECESSARY, IN YOUR ENTIRE AND UTTER DESTRUCTION. EDWARD MALLORY: WE KNOW YOUR NUMBER, YOUR IDENTITY, YOUR HISTORY, AND YOUR AMBITIONS; WE ARE FULLY COGNIZANT OF YOUR EVERY WEAKNESS. RESISTANCE IS USELESS; SWIFT AND COMPLETE SUBMISSION IS YOUR ONLY HOPE. CAPTAIN SWING
Mallory sat in astonishment, memory rushing vividly upon him. Wyoming again, a morning when he’d risen from his camp-bed to find a rattlesnake dozing in his body-heat. He had felt the serpent squirming below his back in the depths of his sleep, but had drowsily ignored it. Here now was the sudden scaly proof.
He snatched the card up, examining it minutely. Camphorated cellulose, damp with something pungent—and the tiny black letters were beginning to fade. The flexible card had grown hot in his fingers. He dropped it at once, choking back a yelp of surprise. The card lay warping on the table-top, then began flaking into layers thinner than the finest onion-skin, while browning nastily at the edges. A feather of yellowish smoke began to rise, and Mallory realized that the thing was about to burst into flame.
He snatched hastily within the basket, came up with the latest thick grey issue of the Quart. Jrl. Geol. Soc., and swiftly swatted the card. After two sharp blows, it came apart into a thready curling mess, half-mixed with the blistered finish of the table-top.
Mallory slit open a begging-letter, tossed the contents out unread, and swept the ash into the envelope, with the sharp-edged spine of the geological journal. The table did not seem too badly damaged.…
“Dr. Mallory?”
Mallory looked up, with a guilt-stricken start, into the face of a stranger. The man, a tall and cleanshaven Londoner, very plainly dressed, with a gaunt, unsmiling look, stood across the library table from Mallory, papers and a notebook in one hand.
“A very poor specimen,” Mallory said, in a sudden ecstasy of impromptu deception. “Pickled in camphor! A dreadful technique!” He folded the envelope and slid it in his pocket.
The stranger silently offered a carte-de-visite.
Ebenezer Fraser’s card bore his name, a telegram-number, and a small embossed Seal of State. Nothing else. The other side offered a stippled portrait with the look of stone-faced gravity that seemed the man’s natural expression.
Mallory rose to offer his hand, then realized that his fingers were tainted with acid. He bowed instead, sat at once, and wiped his hand furtively on the back of his trouser-leg. The skin of thumb and forefinger felt dessicated, as if dipped in formaldehyde.
“I hope I find you well, sir,” Fraser murmured, seating himself across the table. “Recovered from yesterday’s attack?”
Mallory glanced down the length of the library. The other patrons were still clumped together at the far side of the room, and seemed very curious indeed about his antics and Fraser’s sudden appearance.
“A trifle,” Mallory hedged. “Might happen to anyone, in London.”
Fraser lifted one dark eyebrow, by a fraction.
“Sorry my mishap should cause you to take trouble, Mr. Fraser.”
“No trouble, sir.” Fraser opened a leather-bound notebook and produced a reservoir-pen from within his plain, Quakerish jacket. “Some questions?”
“Truth to tell, I’m rather pressed for time at the moment—”
Fraser silenced him with an impassive look. “Been here three hours, sir, awaiting your convenience.”
Mallory began a fumbling apology.
Fraser ignored him. “I witnessed something quite curious outside, at six o’clock this morning, sir. A young news-boy, crying to the world that Leviathan Mallory was arrested for murder.”
“Me? Edward Mallory?”
Fraser nodded.
“I don’t understand. Why should any news-boy cry any such damnable lie?”
“Sold a deal of his papers,” Fraser said drily. “Bought one meself.”
“What on earth did this paper have to say about me?”
“Not a word of news about any Mallory,” Fraser said. “You may see for yourself.” He dropped a folded newspaper on the table-top: a London Daily Express.
Mallory set the newspaper carefully atop his basket. “Some wicked prank,” he suggested, his throat dry. “The street-arabs here are nerved for anything.…”
“When I stepped out again, the little rascal had hooked it,” Fraser said. “But a deal of your colleagues heard that news-boy crying his tale. Been the talk of the place all morning.”
“I see,” Mallory said. “That accounts for a certain … well!” He cleared his throat.
Fraser watched him impassively. “You’d best see this now, sir.” He took a folded document from his notebook, opened it, and slid it across the polished mahogany.
An Engine-printed daguerreotype. A dead man, full length on a slab, a bit of linen tucked about his loins. The picture had been taken in a morgue. The corpse had been knifed open from belly to sternum with a single tremendous ripping thrust. The skin of chest and legs and bulging belly was marble pale, in eerie contrast to t
he deeply sunburnt hands, the florid face.
It was Francis Rudwick.
There was a caption at the bottom of the picture. A Scientific Autopsy, it read. The “batrachian” subject is pithed and opened in a catastrophic dissection. First in a Series.
“God in Heaven!” Mallory said.
“Official police morgue record,” Fraser said. “Seems it fell into the hands of a mischief-maker.”
Mallory stared at it in horror-struck amazement. “What can it mean?”
Fraser readied his pen. “What is ‘batrachian,’ sir?”
“From the Greek,” Mallory blurted. “Batrachos, amphibian. Frogs and toads, mostly.” He struggled for words. “Once—years ago, in a debate—I said that his theories … Rudwick’s geological theories, you know …”
“I heard the story this morning, sir. It seems well-known among your colleagues.” Fraser flipped pages in his notebook. “You said to Mr. Rudwick: ‘The course of Evolution does not conform to the batrachian sluggishness of your intellect. ’ ” He paused. “Fellow did look a bit froggy, didn’t he, sir?”
“It was in public debate at Cambridge,” Mallory said slowly. “Our blood was up.…”
“Rudwick claimed you were ‘mad as a hatter, ’ ” Fraser mused. “Seems you took that remark very ill.”
Mallory flushed. “He had no right to say that, with his gentry airs—”
“You were enemies.”
“Yes, but—” Mallory wiped his forehead. “You can’t believe I had anything to do with this!”
“Not by your own intention, I am sure,” Fraser said. “But I believe you’re a Sussex man, sir? Town called Lewes?”
“Yes?”
“Seems that some scores of these pictures have been mailed from the Lewes postal office.”
Mallory was stunned. “Scores of them?”
“Mailed far and wide to your Royal Society colleagues, sir. Anonymously.”
“Christ in Heaven,” Mallory said, “they mean to destroy me!”