Mallory’s armpits prickled with sweat. “Captain Swing, is it?”
“Sporting-fellow of some kind, to judge by his dress,” the King said cheerfully. “Short, red-headed, squinty—had a bump on his head, just here. Crazy as a bedbug, I should say. He was polite enough though, not proposing to make any trouble for the bill-sticking trade once customary matters was explained to him. And he had him a sight of ready money.”
“I know that man!” Mallory said, his voice trembling. “He’s a violent Luddite conspirator. He may be the most dangerous man in England!”
“You don’t say,” the King grunted.
“He’s a dire threat to public safety!”
“Fellow didn’t look like much,” the King said. “Funny little duck, wore spectacles and talked to hisself.”
“The man is an enemy of the realm—a dark-lanternist of the most sinister description!”
“I don’t much hold with politics, meself,” said the King, leaning back quite at his ease. “The Bill-Sticking Regulatory Act—now that’s politics for you, a doltish business! That blasted Act is mighty stiff, regarding where bills may be posted. Let me tell you, Dr. Mallory, I personally know the Member that got that Act passed in Parliament, for I was hired for his election campaign. He didn’t mind where his bills went. It was all quite right-enough, so long as they was his bills!”
“My God!” Mallory broke in. “The thought of that evil man, loose in London—with money, from God only knows what source—fomenting riot and rebellion during a public emergency—and in control of an Engine-driven press! It’s nightmarish! Horrible!”
“Pray don’t fash yourself, Dr. Mallory,” the King chided gently. “My dear old father, rest his soul, used to tell me: ‘When all about you are losing their heads, son, just remember: there are still twenty shillings in a pound.’ ”
“That’s as may be,” Mallory said, “but—”
“My dear dad stuck bills in the Time of Troubles! Back in the thirties, when the cavalry charged on the working-people, and old Hooky-Nose Wellington got hisself blown to flinders. Hard times indeed, sir, much harder than soft modern days with this trifling Stink! Call this an emergency? Why, I call it opportunity, and have done with it.”
“You don’t seem to grasp the urgency of the crisis,” Mallory said.
“The Time of Troubles—now that was when they printed the first four-sheet double-crowns! The Tory Government used to pay my old dad—my dad was Beadle and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrews, Holborn—to black-wash Radical bills. He had to hire women to do it, there was so much call for the job. He’d black-wash Rad bills by day, and stick up new ones by night! There’s a deal of fine opportunity in your times of revolution.”
Mallory sighed.
“My dad invented the device we call the Patent Extendable Dabbing-Joint—to which I myself have made a number of mechanical improvements. It serves to stick bills to the under-sides of bridges, for the water-trade. We are an entrepreneurial line in my family, sir. Not easily put out of countenance.”
“A lot of good all that will do you when London’s reduced to ashes,” Mallory said. “Why, you’re helping the scoundrel in his anarchistic plottings!”
“I should say you have that straight-backwards, Dr. Mallory,” the King said, with an odd little chuckle. “Last I saw, the fellow was paying his money into my pockets, and not vice-versa. Now that I think on it, he’s consigned a number of bills to my safe-keeping—right along the top row, here.” The King stood, yanked the documents down, cast them onto his padded floor. “You see, sir, it don’t really matter a hang what nonsense is blithered and babbled on these bills! The secret truth is, that bills is endless by their very nature, regular as the tides in the Thames, or the smoke of London. London’s true sons call London ‘The Smoke,’ you know. She’s an eternal city, like your Jerusalem, or Rome, or, some would say, Satan’s Pandemonium! You don’t see the King of the Bill-Stickers worrying for smoky London, do you? Not a bit of it!”
“But the people have fled!”
“A passing foolishness. They’ll all be back,” said the King, with sublime confidence. “Why, they have no place else to go. This is the center of the world, sir.”
Mallory fell silent.
“So, sir,” proclaimed the King, “if you was to take my advice, you’d spend six shillings on that roll of bills you’re clutching. Why, for one pound even, I’ll toss in these other misprinted bills of our friend Captain Swing’s. Twenty simple shillings, sir, and you may leave these streets, and rest at home in peace and quiet.”
“Some of these bills have already been posted,” Mallory said.
“I could have the lads black-wash ’em—or paste ’em over, anyhow,” the King mused. “If you was willing to make it worth their while, of course.”
“Would that put an end to the matter?” said Mallory, reaching for his pocket-book. “I doubt it.”
“A better end than any you can make with that pistol I see peeping from your trouser-band,” said the King. “That is an item which cannot do a gentleman and scholar any credit.”
Mallory said nothing.
“Heed my counsel, Dr. Mallory, and put that gun away before you do yourself a mischief. I do believe you might have hurt one of my lads, if I hadn’t spied that gun through my peep-hole, and stepped out to set things right. Go home, sir, and cool your head.”
“Why aren’t you at home, if you truly mean that advice?” Mallory said.
“Why, this is my home, sir,” said the King. He tucked Mallory’s money into his shooting-jacket. “On pleasant days my old woman and I take our tea in here, and talk about old times … and walls, and embankments, and hoardings.…”
“I have no home in London; and in any case business calls me to Kensington,” Mallory said.
“That’s a distance, Dr. Mallory.”
“Yes, it is,” Mallory said, with a tug at his beard. “But it strikes me that there are any number of museums and savants’ palaces in Kensington, which have never been touched by advert-paper.”
“Really,” mused the King. “Do tell.”
Mallory bade the King farewell a good mile from the Palace of Paleontology; he was unable to bear the fumes of glue any longer, and the van’s lurching had made him badly seasick. He staggered off with the heavy scrolls of libelous and anarchic bills bundled awkwardly in his sweating grip. Behind him, Jemmy and Tom set to eager glue-slapping on the virgin bricks of the Palace of Political Economy.
Mallory propped the rolled bills against an ornate lamppost, and re-knotted his cloth mask over nose and mouth. His head spun evilly. Perhaps, he thought, that sticking-paste had had a bit of arsenic in it, or the ink some potent nauseous coal-derivative, for he felt poisoned, and weak in his very marrow. When he juggled up the bills again, their paper wrinkled in his sweating hands like the peeling skin of a drowned man.
He had, it seemed, frustrated a lashing bite of the tout’s hydra-headed devilment. But this minor triumph seemed wretchedly small, when matched against the villain’s seemingly endless reservoirs of wicked ingenuity. Mallory was stumbling in darkness—while torn at will by invisible fangs.…
And yet Mallory had discovered a crucial piece of evidence: the tout was gone to earth in the West India Docks! To be so close to a chance to grapple with the scoundrel, and yet so far—it was enough to madden a man.
Mallory stumbled badly on a slick lump of horse-dung, then swung the scrolls up onto his right shoulder, in an unstable heap. It was a useless fantasy to imagine confronting the tout—alone, unaided, while the man was miles away, back across the chaos of London. Mallory had almost reached the Palace now, and it had taken well-nigh all he had to manage the trick of it.
He forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. He would haul the wretched bills to the Palace safety-box. They might prove useful as evidence someday, and they could take the place of Madeline’s wedding-clock. He would take up the clock, he would find a way to flee this cursed London, an
d he would re-join his family, as he should have done. In green Sussex, in the bosom of the good auld clawney, there would be quiet, and sense, and safety. The gears of his life would begin to mesh once more in order.
Mallory lost his grip on the rolls of paper and they cascaded violently to the tarmac, one of them hitting him a smart blow across the shins as it bounded free. He gathered them up, groaning, and tried the other shoulder.
In the rancid mists down Knightsbridge a procession of some kind was moving steadily across the road. Ghost-like, blurred by distance and the Stink, they appeared to be military gurneys, the squat treaded monsters of the Crimean War. Fog muffled a heavy chugging and the faint repeated clank of jointed iron. One after another they passed, while Mallory peered forward, standing quite still and gripping his burden. Each gurney hauled a linked articulated caisson. These wains appeared to be canvas-shrouded cannon, with men, foot-soldiers in canvas-colored drab, clustered atop the cannons like barnacles, with a sea-urchin bristle of bayoneted rifles. At least a dozen war-gurneys, possible a score. Mallory rubbed his aching eyes in puzzled disbelief.
At Brompton Concourse he saw a trio of masked and hatted figures scamper off with light-foot tread from a broken doorway; but no one offered trouble to him.
Some civil authority had erected saw-horses at the gate of the Palace of Paleontology. But the barricades were not manned; it was a simple matter to slip past them and up the fog-slick stone stairs to the main entrance. The Palace’s great double-doors were thickly curtained in a protective shroud of wet canvas, hung from the brick archway down to the very flagstones. The thick damp fabric smelled sharply of chloride of lime. Behind the canvas, the Palace doors were slightly ajar. Mallory eased his way inside.
Servants were draping the furniture of lobby and drawing-room with thin white sheets of muslin. Others, a peculiar crowd of them, swept, and mopped, and dabbled earnestly at the cornices with long jointed feather-dusters. London women, and a large number of children of all ages, bustled about wearing borrowed Palace cleaning-aprons, looking anxious but vaguely exalted.
Mallory realized at length that these strangers must be the families of the Palace staff, come to seek shelter and security within the grandest public building known to them. And someone—Kelly the major-domo, presumably, with help from whatever savants still remained on the premises—had pluckily organized the refugees.
Mallory strode toward the lobby-desk, lugging his paper burden. These were sturdy working-class folk, he realized. Their stations might be humble, but they were Britons through and through. They were not daunted; they had rallied in instinctive defense of their scientific institutions and the civil values of law and property. He realized, with a heart-lifting wash of patriotic relief, that the lurching madness of Chaos had reached its limit. Within the faltering maelstrom, a nucleation of spontaneous order had arisen! Now, like a cloudy muck resolving into crystals, everything would change.
Mallory flung his hated burden behind the deserted counter of the lobby-desk. In one corner, a telegraph was clacking fitfully, new punch-tape spooling by fits and starts upon the floor. Mallory observed this small but significant miracle, and sighed, like a diver whose head has broken water.
The Palace air was sharp with disinfectant, but blissfully breathable. Mallory stripped the filthy mask from his face and stuffed it in his pocket. Somewhere in this blessed shelter, he thought, there was food to be had. Perhaps a wash-basin, and soap, and sulphurated powder for the fleas that had been creeping about his waistband since morning. Eggs. Ham. Restorative wine. Postage-stamps, laundresses, shoe-blacking—the whole miraculous concatenated network of Civilization.
A stranger came marching toward Mallory across the lobby floor: a British soldier, an Artillery subaltern, in elegant dress-gear. He wore a double-breasted blue coatee, bright with chevrons, brass buttons, and gold-braided epaulets. His sleek trousers had a red military stripe. He wore a round, gold-laced forage-cap, and a buttoned pistol-holster at his neat white waistbelt. With his shoulders square, spine straight, and head high, this handsome young man approached with a stern look of purpose. Mallory straightened quickly, taken aback, even vaguely shamed, to compare his rumpled, sweat-stained civilian garb to this crisp military paragon.
Then, with a leap of surprise, happy recognition dawned. “Brian!” Mallory shouted. “Brian, boy!”
The soldier quickened his pace. “Ned—why it is you, ain’t it!” said Mallory’s brother, a tender smile parting his new Crimean beard. He seized Mallory’s hand in both his own, and shook it heartily, with a solid strength.
Mallory noted with surprise and pleasure that military discipline and scientific diet had put inches and pounds on the lad. Brian Mallory, the family’s sixth-born child, had often seemed a bit quiet and timid, but now Mallory’s little brother stood a good six-four in his military boots, and had the look in his creased blue eyes of a man who had seen the world.
“We’ve been a-waiting for you, Ned,” Brian told him. His bold voice had slipped a bit, by some old habit, into the remembered tone of their childhood. For Mallory, it was a plaintive echo from deep memory: the demands of a crowd of little children upon their eldest brother. Somehow, this familiar call, far from tiring or burdening Mallory, rallied him immediately into a mental second-wind. Confusion vanished like a mist and he felt stronger, more capable; the very presence of young Brian had recalled him to himself. “Damme but it’s good to see you!” Mallory blurted.
“It’s good you’re back at last,” Brian said. “We heard tale of a fire in your room—and you vanished into London, none knew where! That put me and Tom in a very mizmaze!”
“Tom is here too, eh?”
“We both come into London in Tom’s little gurney,” Brian told him. His face fell. “With dire news, Ned, and no ways to tell it, save to your face.”
“What is it?” Mallory said, bracing himself. “Is it … is it Dad?”
“No, Ned. Dad’s all right; or right as he ever is, these days. It is poor Madeline!”
Mallory groaned. “Not the bride-to-be. What is it now?”
“Well, it’s to do with my mate, Jerry Rawlings,” Brian muttered, squaring his epauletted shoulders with a look of embarrassed pain. “Jerry wanted to do right by our Madeline, Ned, for he always talked of her, and lived very clean for her sake; but he’s received such a letter at home, Ned, such a foul and dreadful thing! It quite knocked the heart out of him!”
“What letter, for God’s sake?”
“Well, it warn’t signed, ’cept ‘One Who Knows’—but the writer knew so much about us, the family I mean, all our littlest doings, and said that Madeline had … been unchaste. ’Cept in rougher words.”
Mallory felt a surge of hot fury rush to his face. “I understand,” he said, in a quiet, choked voice. “Go on.”
“Well, their engagement is broken, as you might guess. Poor Maddy has the vapors like she’s never had them before. She liked to do herself an injury, and does nothing now but sit alone in the kitchen and cry rivers.”
Mallory was silent, his mind grating over Brian’s information.
“I’ve been away a deal of time, in India, and Crimea,” Brian said, in a low halting voice. “I don’t know how matters stand, exactly. Tell me true—you don’t think there could be aught to what that wicked gossip told to Jerry? Do you?”
“What? Our own Madeline? My God, Brian, she’s a Mallory girl!” Mallory slammed his fist on the counter. “No, it is slander; it’s a foul deliberate attack on the honor of our family!”
“How … why would anyone do such a thing to us, Ned?” asked Brian, with a strange look of plaintive fury.
“I know why it was done—and I know the villain who did it.”
Brian’s eyes went wide. “You do?”
“Yes; he is the fellow who burnt my rooms. And I know where he is hiding, at this very moment!”
Brian gazed at him in astonished silence.
“I made an enemy of him, in a dark affai
r-of-state,” Mallory said, measuring his words. “I’m a man of some influence now, Brian; and I’ve uncovered the kind of secret, silent plottings that a man like yourself, an honest soldier of the Crown, could scarcely credit!”
Brian shook his head slowly. “I’ve seen pagan vileness done in India to make strong men sick,” he said. “But to see it done in England is more than I can bear!” Brian tugged at his whiskers, a gesture Mallory found oddly familiar. “I knew it was right to come to you, Ned. You always seem to see straight through things, the way none else can. Say on, then! What shall we do about this horrid business? What can we do?”
“That pistol in your holster—is it in working order?”
Brian’s eyes brightened. “Truth to tell, ’tisn’t regulation! A war trophy, gotten off a dead Tzarist officer …” He began to unlatch his holster-flap.
Mallory shook his head quickly, looking about the lobby. “You’re not afraid to use your pistol, if you have to do so?”
“Afraid?” Brian said. “If you warn’t a civilian, Ned, I might take that question ill.”
Mallory stared at him.
Brian met his eyes boldly. “It’s for the family, ain’t it? That’s what we fought the Russkies for—for the sake of the folks at home.”
“Where is Thomas?”
“He’s eating in the—well, I’ll show you.”
Brian led the way into the Palace saloon. The scholarly precincts were crowded with babbling, raucous diners, working-folk mostly, forking up potatoes off the Palace china as if famished. Young Tom Mallory, dressed rather flash in a short linen coat and checked trousers, sat at table with a companion, over the remains of fried fish and lemonade.
The other man was Ebenezer Fraser.
“Ned!” cried Tom. “I knew you’d come!” He rose, and seized another chair. “Sit down with us, sit down! Your friend Mr. Fraser here has been kind enough to buy us lunch.”