Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (7 page)

It was barely two miles to Kent’s Cavern, through an easily traversed wooded area; it was a little steep in places, but Mrs. Otley wore very sensible boots. The cave entrance was easily found amid the trees; indeed, it seemed to Mrs. Otley to be the very standard of a potential prehistoric dwelling. She thought she would have found it a suitable location herself, some thousands of years earlier.

She lit her little lantern and trudged on in. The constant cool temperature of the cave was a genuine pleasure on such a warm day; indeed, she could think of few day’s work that would have been so pleasant in the sun as was a day’s digging in a well-ventilated cavern.

The floors within were lightly sanded, and scattered with time-darkened stones fallen from the walls and ceilings. For the most part, the caverns were flowstone in a pleasing palette of salmon, grey and slatey blue—many portions were rich with both stalagmites and stalactites, and she proceeded with care so as to avoid crushing smaller and more fragile growths underfoot.

As she headed toward the meandering side chamber where she had found the fascinating skull, Mrs. Otley paused to study again an especially moving vista. She wondered whether primitive Britons could have deliberately carved what she now observed: a great face formed in the very substance of the walls. The middle part of the face was obliterated—possibly by the flowstone itself—but the lower portion showed a wide mouth, a quite strong chin and the base of what she fancied was a noble nose. With its broad cheekbones and high brow, she felt it had a definite resemblance to the skull she had found.

Treading carefully, she made her way to the slightly mounded area where the skull had been resting—it had been peering out at her with its dark empty sockets, as if standing guard in place of the great eyeless face in the distance. The scuff marks of her previous excavation now marked the place as clearly as a flag; she settled down in a nearly prayerful attitude, gave a slow contented sigh, and began to carefully remove small trowelfuls of the silky red dirt before her.

There was no wind; the sea lay flat under the heat and no boats marred its surface. Herbertina managed a Talbotype of a hovering hawk that perused her in turn from the middle air beyond the cliff edge, but rather felt that—aside from the neat trick of capturing the bird on the wing—the image had no real value. Still, it let her practice with the device. But when she did finally notice the wake on the ocean below, she was quite taken by surprise.

It showed up on the flat surface like a stroke of ink. There was no evident cause: there was still no wind, and there was no craft in sight, only an arrow-straight wake through the low glassy swell. Herbertina focused, pressed the activation lever, and re-focused as fast as she could. The wake was proceeding at a notable speed, seemingly creating itself from its own bow-wave, and Herbertina was twisting the lens and hauling on the lever with both frenzied hands, face pressed to the eyepieces.

Suddenly the leading edge of the wake opened up like a fountain. What emerged was not a jet of water, however, but a tall slender mast. Just behind it was something that looked like a leaning organ pipe, tilting past the mast. A massive shadow just below it suggested that some sizable body bore both objects aloft. Herbertina captured two successive images before the thing slid out of her field of vision. She straightened and frantically tried to loosen the horizontal holding screws—before she could, the mast once more submerged into its own wake. She could see it over the camera and tripod, even though she could not focus the device on it, and watched in astonishment as the wake, too, smoothed out and disappeared.

Either the thing had dissolved, or it had gone too deep to leave a wake. Herbertina cursed and stepped back from the tripod in surrender. She cursed still more when she discovered she had wound her neckerchief into the holding set screws, and was suddenly wearing the camera like a huge pendant. It cost her several minutes and the last two inches of her neckerchief to get free, kneeling on the ground bent over her mechanical albatross.

Mrs. Otley was almost unaware of the passage of hours as she worked. The unchanging temperature and light in a cave were no indication of time; the constant small noises—a drip of distant water, the slide and whisper of a falling stone—did not occur in any living rhythm. However, the small watch she wore pinned to her bosom chimed the hour faithfully, and at last she had to regretfully admit she had excavated the better half of the day away.

And her lamp only held so much fuel. There were rumors of amazing devices available to field agents, lamps that ran on strange and sophisticated substances or gave one the night sight that Mrs. Corvey enjoyed. Mrs. Otley, however, was still a captive of whale oil.

As she sifted through a last spadeful of dirt, her reward suddenly tumbled into her hand like winning dice. Very like dice—they were, unless she much missed her guess, vertebra—seven or eight of them, and very human-looking. Her excitement was great, but there was no time left to examine them closely. She drew a rough rectangle in the excavated dirt to mark where she had found them, then wrapped her trove carefully in a handkerchief and stowed it in her basket.

She fairly danced out of the cave, then, and blew a kiss to the great blind face as she passed it.

Mrs. Corvey studied the fourteen Talbotypes on the table before her, anchored with perfume bottles, tea cups and two of the vases of flowers that had been arriving daily from Mr. Pickett (via the villainous Felan). She passed them one by one as she finished to Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Otley (just returned, rosy-cheeked and excited from her digging, and pressed immediately into service as an analyst). Those two ladies were the best suited to see details and patterns in the images, and possessed besides between them a good working knowledge of both marine life forms and ordnance.

“To dismiss the obvious at once,” Mrs. Otley said, “this is not a whale. I think it is nothing alive at all.”

“So much for the fishermen seeing Leviathans hereabouts,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Something big’s supposed to have come under one man’s boat, though, and fetched it a good enough whack to pitch him overboard, and that looks big enough.”

Her lenses made a soft whirring sound as she adjusted their light sensitivity, bringing one picture closer to her face. “That’s
something
, for certain, just under the water—the light falls on it differently. What I can make out through the foam and glare looks like…a barge. A sunken barge. A barge underwater, at any rate. What on earth moves it?”

“There have been some very nearly successful attempts at submarine propulsion using steam engines. And treadmills, too. But they are very slow, I am told,” offered Mrs. Otley.

“That thing isn’t slow.” Herbertina’s voice was rather muffled. She lay on the sofa with her face on her folded arms, while Dora massaged neck muscles strained by the sudden weight of the Talbotype camera. “It went like bloody blazes! I barely had time to refocus and never did manage to change the paper pack—I’d have gotten more if I had. Sorry, Mrs. C.”

“Not your fault, dear. You weren’t anticipating a speed trial of the thing. Speaking of which, Erato, I don’t think that a “very nearly successful” method can be what’s driving this. A treadmill is a ponderous slow machine, I can tell you from my workhouse days.”

“I don’t see how a steam engine would work at all,” said Miss Rendlesham from the window seat.

“It didn’t,” said Mrs. Otley in some embarrassment. “It blew up. I believe there was a problem with venting.”

Lady Beatrice looked up from the image she was going over with a magnifying glass.

“Mrs. Corvey? Would you examine this, please? If you would, pay attention to that object that resembles an organ pipe.”

Mrs. Otley took the image; her lenses whirred and extended slightly. After a moment, she asked incredulously, “Is that thing
smoking
? It is!”

“Yes, I thought so. Either they have solved the problem of submarine venting,” said Lady Beatrice, “or that is a cannon.”

The print was passed round with the magnifying glass, and the consensus was that it was, indeed, venting steam rather than the smoke of a spent charge. In verification, the next two prints in the series showed no impact in the water, which was as smooth ahead of the wake as behind it.

But Mrs. Otley, who had been perusing the print of the hawk proffered for her amusement by Herbertina, had spied something else in the background. On the cliffs beyond the cottages, below the imposing pile of Mr. Pickett’s present domicile, was a figure. It was also watching the sea, and under examination by the magnifying glass appeared to be employing a telescope for the purpose. When Mrs. Corvey’s lenses were brought to bear on the image, it was unmistakeably Mr. Pickett himself, watching the sea caves below the cottages and Herbertina’s redoubt.

“I don’t know what’s being done, nor how he’s doing it,” said Mrs. Corvey in grim triumph, “but he’s the bugger who’s doing whatever it is! All right, the Gentlemen have put this off too long. I’m done with sending coy little love notes, it’s time to break out the Aetheric Transmitter. I want to talk to someone about this, and I want to do it tonight!”

Dora and Maude trotted off at once to bring out Mrs. Corvey’s sewing basket, and to reassemble its components into a compact Aetheric Transmitter; Miss Rendlesham obligingly ran the fine wire antenna out the window by which she had been sitting. Lady Beatrice meanwhile fetched out Mrs. Corvey’s instruction manual and code books, and set about tuning the device to the frequency required by the date and hour for successful transmission. So accustomed were the Ladies to this exercise (by dint of regular drills with the equipment) that within a quarter hour Mrs. Corvey was determinedly demanding parlay with the Officer of the Day below Redking’s Club in London, nearly 200 miles away.

Upon establishing bona fides to the disembodied male voice’s satisfaction (“Who else does he think is calling out of the aether, I’d like to know?” muttered Mrs. Corvey
sotto voce
to the ladies seated expectantly round the table) it was at last determined that there was, essentially, no one of rank available for a serious consultation with field agents—let alone the holidaying Ladies of Nell Gwynne’s.

“Then fetch Mr. Felmouth, young man,” snapped Mrs. Corvey.

“Mr. Felmouth is the Head of Fabrication, ma’am,” said the voice. It sounded somewhat scandalized.

“I know that, boy! You’ll find him in the Artificer’s Hall, I shouldn’t wonder. The man’s there all hours of the night and day.” Mrs. Corvey pointed a finger at the Aetheric Transmitter, as if the man at the other end of the circuit were not as blind—or blinder—than she herself. “Something mighty odd is swanning round the coast off Torbay, and if all the Gentleman are off to Bath for the waters or whatever, then I’ll have the Chief Fabricator to account. Put down that bun and go fetch him, now.”

There was a most speaking silence, before the voice—now sounding positively unnerved—muttered “Yes’m,” and the carrier wave was left to hum by itself.

“How did you guess he was eating a bun ?” asked Maude, grinning.

“It’s tea time,” said Mrs. Corvey shortly.

“And if all the chiefs are off and out,” commented Herbertina, “that boy was bound to have a cup or a pint or a bun to hand. Probably all three. Well done, Mrs. C.”

Guilt or panic must have lent wings to the young operator’s heels, because it was only a few minutes before Mr. Felmouth’s familiar tones replaced the soft noise of the somnolent Transmitter.

“Felmouth here. How are you, Mrs. Corvey?” came his amused voice. “Young Harvey here is convinced your new lenses can now see along the beam of the Aetheric Transmitter. It’s almost a pity to have to tell him I didn’t make them
that
well. Though perhaps I’ll let him think we are watching him, and so prevent crumbs from dropping into the Transmitter.”

“Boys’ll be boys. No matter how big they are,” said Mrs. Corvey. “And most of the Gentlemen have taken French Leave, it seems. But we have something far too large and odd going on here for my girls to handle—especially on holiday!—and I need advice and decisions. Pardon my bluntness, Mr. Felmouth, but have you made a submarine boat for the Gentlemen?”

“What a…novel inquiry, Mrs. Corvey. Hmmm, hmmm. Ah, let me say: not
yet
,” came his cautious reply.

“Someone has beat you to it, then. We have eye-witnesses—including
my
eyes, Mr. Felmouth, and you know what they can do, none better. My girls have seen the thing, and even on holiday they see what’s there,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Now, listen: we have a dozen or so Talbotype prints, too, and they show that it’s underwater, under power—probably steam—and possibly armed with a cannon. And if it’s not the Gentlemen, then we have the culprit as well, and he’s not a lad what I would trust with a borrowed dinghy, let alone a submarine boat! He’s an American named Pickett, half-cocked at the best of times, and he’s stock-piling munitions and has hired a foundryman and taken a house commanding the cliffs. Now I want someone to do something about this!”

“Good heavens,” said Mr. Felmouth. “Surely you’ve reported this—this developing situation?”

“Repeatedly. And I’ve been told to watch and report, what I have done, and you can find the reports on file somewhere under Harvey’s tea mug, I’ve no doubt. What I need now is someone to come take over before Mr. Pickett declares war on France. The man is mad to defend the Queen, and he’ll invent an enemy if he has to.” Mrs. Corvey gave a sharp nod at the Transmitter, then said in closing, “Can you be of assistance, Mr. Felmouth?”

“I hardly know. The Field branch is—well, they are all in the field, you see, and I know it’s quite a scramble over there at the moment, which is probably why they did not act with alacrity on a, a domestic situation…” Mr. Felmouth’s distracted voice trailed off a moment, then resumed with new firmness. “But I certainly know upon whom to call, and how to hurry this through channels, Mrs. Corvey, and please rest assured I will! Can you leave the Transmitter up, with someone monitoring it for my reply? I shall have an answer for you this evening.”

Miss Rendlesham, still in the window seat reading her novel, raised a hand to volunteer. Mrs. Corvey and Mr. Felmouth closed with mutual courtesies and some haste, and Lady Beatrice set the Transmitter to its holding setting.

“And now,” announced Dora brightly, “it’s time for
our
tea! Imagining that poor boy clutching his bun all alone, so far away…”

“Oh, don’t,” said Maude. “I don’t want to think of poor boys clutching anything! We’re on holiday.”

“Such as it is,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Well, girls, two or three of you go down and fetch us up with a good solid tea. We’ll eat
en suite
while we wait to find out what else we have to do. I fancy something toasted today, I think.”

Sardines on toast went far to restore Mrs. Corvey to her usual calm; her lenses stopped their nervous whirring in and out, which was always a sure sign she was in a temper. A plate of local mushrooms and cheese thrilled Mrs. Otley, and the others were happily confronted with an array of muffins, cold meats and warm breads. Three kinds of tea and copious cream reduced Dora, Jane and Maude to a cat-like somnolence, and even the other Ladies to a quiet content.

But Miss Rendlesham, now reclining at her ease on the chaise beside the end table that housed the Transmitter, was immediately ready when it chimed three times to announce an incoming message. Teacup neatly held in thumb and forefinger, she hit the Receive button with her ring finger while pushing up the volume lever with the edge of the novel in her other hand. She was sitting up and announcing, “Mrs. Corvey is to hand and ready for transmission,” as soon as Mr. Felmouth’s voice gave tentative greeting.

Mrs. Corvey was just finishing a pot of Earl Grey tea (she had been pleased to find the exotic blend, widely available only for the last ten years or so, on their boarding house’s menu) and thus inquired quite amiably after Mr. Felmouth’s news. He, however, sounded less than equable in his address.

“To tell you the honest truth, Mrs. Corvey,” he said across the miles, “we simply have no qualified men to send out there at this time. There is no one left in Field save for a few trainees.”

“Where on earth are they, Mr. Felmouth?” said Mrs. Corvey.

“Well, they are—they are all out, ah—managing revolutions. As it were. So to speak.” Mr. Felmouth was obviously both taken aback at the admission, and chastened to report his failure. “It appears that not only is the recent French trouble still fermenting, but several other European powers, both major and minor, are building up to similar explosions, and our best operatives are all abroad making sure it all ends—ah, ends well.”

“Are the Gentlemen for or against this tide of revolution?” inquired Mrs. Corvey with marked restraint. “Oh, never mind—hardly matters to us here, does it?

“Well, have you any advice at all for what we shall do here in the civilized backwaters with our mad American submariner?”

“I am instructed to advise you that, regretfully, the matter must be placed fully in your hands for the next few days,” said Mr. Felmouth. “You are to watch this Pickett fellow closely, gathering such proof of his activities as may be managed, and stand ready to stop him if the need arises suddenly. There should be operatives free to take over from you by the end of next week, if the matter has not come to a head before then.”

“And presumably to keep my girl out of gaol, when she’s had to stab the bugger to keep him from playing Drake with the French shipping?” asked Mrs. Corvey. She raised an admonitory hand as Mrs. Otley gave a little cry. “Did you
read
my reports? We didn’t pack for field duty ourselves, you know. Beatrice will probably have to dispatch Mr. Pickett with a knitting needle, if it comes to it.”

“Oh…oh, surely not,” said Mr. Felmouth faintly. “Surely it is not so serious as that? Your reports were alarming, true, but surely it will not come to violence?”

Lady Beatrice leaned toward the Transmitter, asking Mrs. Corvey’s permission with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Felmouth, Lady Beatrice here. I have had a more intimate view of Pickett’s ambitions, and he really is quite out of control. He dreams of imperial favor and a hero’s career. He seems to have built a vessel that will travel underwater, and he is certainly manufacturing munitions. He has employed a foundry. In fact, it appears he has constructed a submarine gun platform. I am not, of course,
au courant
with our government policies regarding the French, but I should think that opening fire on their ships will have an adverse effect on our relations with their new Republic? There were riots and massacres in Paris only last month.”

The Transmitter hummed. A warble in the carrier wave grew into a low moaning sound, which was evidently originating with Mr. Felmouth.

“Mr. Felmouth. Do pay attention, Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey sternly. “Pickett’s got no grasp of real politics, and he’s got nothing to stop him out here but an infatuation with our Beatrice. He’s a romantic fool, but he’s dangerous. We shall do the best we can to slow him, and stop him if we must—but you get us some help out here at once, you understand? Send us some of your new toys, maybe, until the Gentlemen can settle their revolutions and get here to tend to home business.”

Mr. Felmouth’s vocal distress cleared to a rush of apologies and promises of immediate help, “—of the best I can ready, Mrs. Corvey, at once and by special courier. I’ll send out whatever I can without delay. And I’ll see what I can do to get some of the Field lads back from Hungary, and Czechoslovakia, and the Piedmont: so many of them are in the Piedmont, you see, and then the Slavs are revolting—”