End of the Century (31 page)

“…strike,” Lugh said casually, completing his thought.

The move had increased the reach of Lugh's thrust remarkably and had allowed him to cover a considerable amount of ground in a lightning-fast strike.

“What the devil was
that
?” Galaad's mouth hung open.

“That,” Pryder said admiringly, “is why they call him ‘Long Hand.'”

Lugh straightened with a shrug. “It's just something I worked out some years back. I call it my ‘answer.' But it's a move that's held me in good stead a time or two, I can tell you.”

Galaad nodded, eyes wide. “I can well imagine.” He tightened his grip on his own sword, playing back the move in his mind. “Please, if you don't mind, sir…?”

“Yes?” Lugh asked. “What is it?”

“Could you do it again?” Galaad asked, a hungry look in his eyes.

A watch was posted the second night that the seven were in Llongborth, outside the doors of the hall, vigilant for any sign of the Huntsman or his hounds. But the night passed without any appearance by the spectral visitors, and those within the hall were allowed to slumber uninterrupted.

Galaad was among them, wedged into a narrow space and bordered on every side by bodies, but while the hall reverberated gently with the rustling and snoring of the many sleepers, Galaad himself was unable to find solace in sleep. He'd had another of his visions during the evening meal, the smell of the hearty stewpot before them replaced by the scent of flowers and the cozy red glow of the hearthfire forgotten in the blinding white flash. The images had been the same as always, as had the emotional content of the message, but for the first time, beneath the sudden and pervasive sense of bliss that he felt, Galaad detected a tiny glimmer of fear, a minor but persistent irritant.

Whether this fear was his own, or else part of the feelings engendered in him by the vision, Galaad couldn't say. But knowing that there was some connection between the tower of glass, the White Lady imprisoned within, and the haunting figure of the Huntsman gave new meaning to the vision. The White Lady had always called for assistance, for rescue, but until now it had never occurred to Galaad to wonder, rescue from
what
?

The Huntsman was part of the equation, that much was certain. Was he the power which held the White Lady prisoner, or instead some agent of that power? And if he were only agent, and not the power in himself, then what did that suggest about the nature of the Huntsman's master?

When Galaad's vision ended, and his senses returned to him, he found that no one had noticed his momentary fugue, the dining continuing unabated around him. He returned to his meal, though as the scent of flowers faded in his nostrils, he found that the food tasted only of ashes in his mouth.

THE NEXT MORNING
, Blank was awoken from a much needed and protracted slumber by someone ringing his front doorbell. Pulling on a Japanese dressing gown of black silk embroidered with red and gold, making it the most colorful item of clothing in his current wardrobe, Blank left his sleeping chamber, crossed the library, and entered the foyer. Opening the door, he found a telegraph boy at the threshold, in a crisp brown uniform and matching cap, a leather satchel over his shoulder. The slip of paper the boy presented was from Superintendent Melville and in abbreviated words indicated that there had been a discovery in the early morning hours behind the Tivoli Music Hall that Blank was certain to find of interest.

Blank tipped the boy, shut the door, and returned to his bedchamber to bathe and dress. Melville had been circumspect in the details of his communiqué, but it was clear from reading between the lines that the so-called Jubilee Killer had likely struck again.

Without calling ahead to warn her, Blank knocked on the door of Number 9, Bark Place. When Mrs. Pool answered the door, a barely concealed scowl of disapproval at finding him standing on the step, he said, “Kindly give these to your mistress,” and handed her the bouquet of long-stemmed white roses he'd purchased on the way. Tucked in between the stems, speared on one of the longer thorns, was a card.

Mrs. Pool left Blank standing in the entryway, and in moments Miss
Bonaventure was standing at the top of the stairs in a nightgown, the roses in one hand, the card in the other. “‘
Miss Bonaventure, we are needed
,'” she read aloud. She smiled. “Blank, why do I get the impression that your gift of flowers arrives with some strings attached?”

Mrs. Pool, scandalized at her employer appearing before a gentleman caller in such a state of undress—practically
naked
—stuck her head out from around the corner and glared at them, before ducking back out of sight.

“Well, Miss Bonaventure, I'm afraid that I must interrupt your much deserved rest. It appears that our friend the Jubilee Killer has been busy.”

A short while later, Blank and Miss Bonaventure arrived at the front door of the Tivoli. It was on the south side of the Strand, across from the Adelphi and next door to the Savoy.

“It's been just ages since we've been to the theater, Blank,” Miss Bonaventure said, stepping down from the hansom cab that had carried them. “When was the last we saw together? Was it
The Importance of Being Earnest
at St. James's?”

Blank tugged down the front of his waistcoat, which had ridden up in the cab, and scowled unconsciously. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. With his silver-topped cane he pointed up the street at the Lyceum. “It was
King Arthur
.”

“Ah!” Miss Bonaventure clapped her hands. “Of course. With Arthur Sullivan's incidental score, and Henry Irving as that other Arthur, the one with the sword.”

“Don't forget Ellen Terry's Guenevere,” Blank said, helpfully.

“Forget it? I wish I
could
. Ghastly.”

Blank shrugged. “I liked the scenery and costumes well enough, but then you never can go too far wrong with Burne-Jones. Bram Stoker was wise to bring him in on the production.”

“Bram Stoker, the writer?” Miss Bonaventure asked.

“Bram Stoker, the theater manager,” Blank answered. “Though I understand that both writer and manager receive their mail at the same address and are married to the same woman.”

“We shall have to go to the theater again together soon, you and I,” Miss Bonaventure said, threading her arm through his.

“I expect we shall momentarily,” Blank said, guiding her towards the door, “but I doubt it will be quite the experience you're looking for.”

Miss Bonaventure smiled at him. “Well, if the experience is worse than that of Carr's
King Arthur
, I shall be very much surprised.”

As it happened, the body had been discovered not in the Tivoli Music Hall itself, but in a studio built behind it. The woman had been identified as one Miss Cecilia Villers, and her body had been discovered first thing that morning by William Kennedy-Laurie Dickson, an employee of the Mutoscope and Biograph Company that leased the studio from the Tivoli.

Kennedy-Laurie Dickson, it appeared, had briefly left the studio to conduct some business in the city, but was expected back momentarily. While they waited, Blank and Miss Bonaventure questioned the other employees on hand to learn what they could. What they discovered amounted to very little: that the principal address of the Mutoscope and Biograph Company was 2 to 4 Cecil Court, Westminster; that their films included “Pelicans at the Zoo,” “The Home Life of a Hungarian Family,” “Elephants at the Zoo,” and “The Coldstream Guard”; that the “Biograph” was a projector using wide-gauge sixty-eight-millimeter film, and the “Mutoscope” was a viewing device utilizing bromide prints in a “flick-book” principle; and that the cameras used in the studio were manufactured by Perihelion, Unlimited Company of London. All of which was perhaps interesting, if marginally, in the way that weather reports from other countries might be of trivial interest but hardly have any bearing on one's own daily plans. The only information of any relevance which Blank and Miss Bonaventure were able to procure was the fact that Miss Villers, a photographer of some small talent, had been these past weeks employed as a camera operator by the Mutoscope and Biograph Company, who were so desperate for material to meet the growing demand for moving pictures that they were willing to overlook the fact that she was a woman. That her films seemed to be several cuts above the lackluster record
of animals in cages which accounted for a significant percentage of the company's output, it seemed, had no doubt argued somewhat in her favor.

Miss Bonaventure recalled having seen some of Miss Villers photographic work on exhibition in a small gallery. On the evidence of those pictures alone, Miss Villers had obviously been influenced by the work of the late Julia Margaret Cameron.

Blank was somewhat surprised, as he often was, at Miss Bonaventure's seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of women who excelled in the arts and sciences. Though to his certain knowledge Miss Bonaventure had not met many if any of the women in question personally, when their names were mentioned she was invariably able to recall some salient details from their personal and professional biographies. It was as though Miss Bonaventure had made a study of successful women, though through the use of what resources Blank was unable to guess.

“I knew she didn't do any more photography,” Miss Bonaventure had said, absently, staring off into empty space, “but I'd just assumed she married, or…” She trailed off, and caught Blank looking at her. “I'm sorry,” she said, bringing her features under control. “We'd never met, but having seen her work, I felt that I knew her, somehow.”

So far as Blank had been able to discover, Miss Villers had once done a single gallery show, and that one at a small and seldom-visited gallery of little repute. He wondered how many photos might have been displayed for Miss Bonaventure to come to know her so well.

Finally, William Kennedy-Laurie Dickson arrived. He wore a Homburg and a neatly trimmed little mustache, and spoke English with an American accent, with the slightest traces of France creeping around the edges of some words. He explained that he had immigrated to England the month before to take up an appointment as technical manager and cameraman for the newly formed Mutoscope and Biograph Company. Then, without prompting, he explained that he had until 1895 been a senior associate to Thomas Alva Edison, whom he described as a “rat bastard,” their association having ended when Edison discovered that Dickson had been sharing trade secrets with his competitors, the Lathams.

“Well, thank you for agreeing to answer our questions,” Blank said,
having to work to keep his slight smile from erupting into full laughter. He'd not had to ply Dickson with one of his calling cards, or employ his mesmerism in the slightest. The cameraman was clearly
born
to talk and needed only the slightest provocation to let out a torrent of words, on whatever topic.

Dickson continued, unabated, talking about the KMCD group he'd set up with three friends, Koopman, Marvin, and Casler, still more “rat bastards,” who had failed to offer him a senior management position when the initial development work for the company had ended. He'd spent the previous year and the early part of 1897 as a traveling cameraman, filming in various parts of the United States, living out of hotels and roadside inns, and his roaming finally ended when he accepted the Mutoscope and Biograph Company's offer and moved to London. Only after accepting the offer and relocating, though, was he informed by his new employers, whom he refrained from calling “rat bastards,” but only just, that he would be expected to travel widely throughout Britain and Europe, providing the company with a steady stream of filmed product.

“You're right, that hardly seems fair,” Blank said, his manner consoling. “Now, about the matter of the dead woman.…”

Dickson blustered on, hardly pausing for breath, segueing from the topic of his new employers to the other employees with whom he'd been forced to work. Including the aforementioned Miss Cecilia Villers, who if it had escaped everyone's notice, was a
woman
. That he was expected every morning to restore the damage done in the night to the camera and its settings by the second-shift crew was bad enough, but that the inept camera operator in question was of the distaff variety simply added insult to injury.

“So she was not an accomplished photographer?” Miss Bonaventure asked.

Dickson allowed that Miss Villers had produced a few very watchable films, though perturbed to be questioned by a woman, but went on to say that anyone could fall off a building and hit a bucket of water, but that it didn't make them marksmen, which analogy seemed to escape Blank and Miss Bonaventure. That Miss Viller's work was evidently skillful, it appeared, was not evidence of her skill.

“What can you tell us about the scene this morning?” Blank asked.

Here, Dickson seemed to soften, remembering the sight that had greeted him on first arriving at the studio a few short hours ago. He recounted that he had arrived early, not long after dawn, having not yet accustomed his sleeping schedule to the early London sunrise. He had gone to unlock the studio, as was his habit, and been surprised to find the door standing open. Dickson had entered to investigate, and almost collided with another man on his way out. This stranger had been tall, dressed in a shabby suit, and completely bald. His skin, that of his hands and on his head and neck, was chalky white, almost cadaverous in coloring. There was something strange, too, about the man's eyes, but Dickson had only caught a glimpse of them and could not put into words just what it was that had struck him odd.

“So the man rushed past you and out of the building, and that's when you found the body?” Blank glanced to Miss Bonaventure, and then back to Dickson.

Dickson allowed that he was correct.