The Steampunk Trilogy (4 page)

The two waited for the Indian to advance and decapitate them both with one mighty blow.

Instead, the thuggee was joined by another figure.

The Man with The Silver Nose.

Lord Chuting-Payne.

In his late fifties, Chuting-Payne possessed the athletic build of a Olympian. Impeccably attired, the master of vast ancestral estates at Carking Fardels, he had once been deemed the most handsome man of his generation. That had been before the duel he had fought with Baron Leopold von Schindler of Austria.

One evening in the year 1798, the eighteen-year-old Chuting-Payne, only scion of his line, had been hosting a dinner for various ambassadors, in an attempt to further his political ambitions. Present had been his sovereign, the demented King George the Third. The Austrian Baron von Schindler, somewhat tipsy and of a fractious nature, had criticized with Teutonic wit Chuting-Payne’s wine list in front of the royal guest of honor. Humiliated beyond tolerance, Chuting-Payne had immediately challenged von Schindler to pistols at twenty paces.

Von Schindler, revealing himself as coward and caitiff, had fired while Chuting-Payne was still turning, blowing off the man’s nose.

Immense quantities of blood streaming down his face, Chuting-Payne had then calmly drilled von Schindler through the heart.

The jewelry firm of Rundell, Bridge Rundell—the very makers of the new lightweight crown that was to be used in frail Victoria’s upcoming coronation—had been employed to melt down some family sterling and fashion a prosthetic silver nose to replace Chuting-Payne’s missing flesh one. They had exerted all their skill, and the resulting simulacrum was a marvel to behold. Affixed by gutta-percha adhesive, the nose was said to be capable of exciting the most jaded of women.

But the attainment of a new nose was hardly the end of the affair. Pressed by the Austrians, King George had sworn out a warrant for Chuting-Payne’s arrest. The man had been forced to flee the country. As the tale went, he had ended up in India, in the Province of Mysore, still an independent nation at the time. Turning his back on his own country, Chuting-Payne had allied himself with the Maharaja of Mysore, Tippoo Sahib, and his French backers against the British. He had lived in Mysore for a year, until it fell to a joint attack by British and Mahratta troops.

Escaping from the siege of Seringapatam, Chuting-Payne had then traveled among the other independent Indian nations—Sind, Rajputana, Punjab—until the death of George the Third in 1820. Somehow he had amassed a large enough fortune to bribe King George the Fourth to rescind the long-standing warrant against him. He had returned to his native land over a decade ago, a figure of enigmatic Oriental qualities, sunbrowned and distant, more wog than limey.

Having been mistreated by Victoria’s ancestor, Chuting-Payne had conceived a stupendous hatred of their whole line. As Melbourne had intimated to Cowperthwait, the man would like nothing better than to involve the throne in any sort of scandal.

“Mister Cowperthwait, I believe,” said the silver-nasaled nobleman, his voice imbued with queer resonances. “I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. My name I assume you know. Allow me to introduce my servant, Gunputty.”

Gunputty bowed. Cowperthwait croaked out something. The bizarre pair completely unnerved him.

“What brings you so far from your retorts and alembics, Mister Cowperthwait? Looking for more amphibious subjects among the slime? By the way, where is your creation lately? I’ve noticed her absence from de Mallet’s.”

“She’s—I’ve—that is—”

“No matter. She’s not the only unique lady missing. Or so my spies report.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean. . . .”

“Oh, really? I think differently. In fact, I believe we are both abroad in search of the same thing, Mister Cowperthwait. Lest the
hoi polloi
overhear, we’ll just call her ‘Vee’ among ourselves, shall we?”

“You’re—you’re hallucinating.”

“Far from it, Mister Cowperthwait. Although I must admit that your addlepated clodpoll of a servant, who appears the byblow of a New World savage on a warthog, does resemble some of my less pleasant nightmares.”

“Put up your dukes, Tinface, them’s fightin’ words.”

Chuting-Payne snugged his white gloves for a more precise fit. “Tell your man, Cowperthwait, that the last fellow who engaged in fisticuffs with me is now so much wormsmeat, and that he would be well-advised to steer clear of his betters. Gunputty—fetch the carriage. Mister Cowperthwait, farewell for the nonce. I sense our paths will cross again.”

In a moment Lord Chuting-Payne’s phaeton was rumbling away. Cowperthwait felt his wits gradually returning, and was mortified that he had let Chuting-Payne treat himself and McGroaty in such a cavalier fashion.

Seeming similarly embarrassed, McGroaty said, “I thought you said you done fixed that cane.”

“It acted precisely as I wished,” extemporized Cowperthwait. “Had it struck that lascar, it would have knocked him senseless.”

“I suggest more diereck tactics in the future, Coz. That air Gunputty don’t seem the type to be stymied by no flyin’ baton.”

“Suggestion acknowledged, Nails.”

4

A WOMAN CALLED OTTO

C
OWPERTHWAIT SPREAD MINT
jelly across his scone. The transparent greenish substance reminded him of the egg mass of the Hellbender. He still recalled the shivery thrill he had felt upon receiving the crate from his American compatriot, S. J. Gould of Harvard, containing the glass vials packed with fresh Hellbender eggs, nestled snugly in wooden cradles set in sawdust and straw for their transatlantic journey. The many nights of feverish experimentation, the innumerable abortions and teratological nightmares which had to be destroyed, the refinements in technique and purification, all resulting in the unique miracle that was Victoria. . . . A wave of sadness and nostalgia crossed over him. Would he ever see his progeny again, or would she remain forever immured inside Buckingham Palace, a slave to the needs of the state?

The only solution lay in finding the real Victoria, a creature no less fabulous than her salamandrine counterpart. Where, oh where could she be? In the three days since their visit to Horseapple’s, Cowperthwait had racked his brain for any likely burrow she might have found, all to no avail. Even at this moment, Cowperthwait had McGroaty out scouring the city for any possible clue, however wild and far-fetched.

A knock resounded on his study door. Cowperthwait tugged down his Naturopathic corset beneath his dressing gown, adjusted the silk scarf around his neck, and called out, “Yes, who is it?”

The door swung open and McGroaty entered, propelling a scurvy character before him. The fellow clutched a battered cap with both hands in front of him, high up on his chest. This position for his headgear was necessitated by his having a withered right arm only a few inches in length. In compensation, his whole left arm was an overdeveloped bulk of muscle.

“Coz, this here’s Shortarm. He runs a sewing shop down in the Seven Dials. Shorty, tell the guv’nor what you told me.”

Shortarm attempted to compose his features into a semblance of innocence, but succeeded only in looking like a fox with chicken feathers stuck to its lips. “Wurl, it’s like this, see. I got me a daughter, a lurvely gell—”

“He fathered the poor thing on his older daughter, so you might say she’s his granddaughter too,” interrupted McGroaty.

Cowperthwait winced. “Yes, go on.”

“Wurl, she’s all of six, so’s I figgered she was old enough to start earning her keep. Otherwise, she was gonna find herself eatin’ air pie, if you get my meanin’. So I puts her to work in the shop, stitchin’ up breeches—”

This time it was Cowperthwait who interrupted. “You know, of course, that in so doing you were in direct violation of Lord Althorp’s Factory Act, regarding the employment of minors.”

Shortarm wrinkled his brow in genuine bafflement. “Can’t say as how I ever heard of no Fackery Axe, sir. And she warn’t doin’ no minin’ of any sort.”

Cowperthwait sighed. “Pray, continue.”

“Wurl. One evenin’ aroun’ seven, just as the gells was finishin’ their day by receivin’ their nightly strappado, in busts these two wimmen. One’s an older lady with the pinchy face of a do-gooder, so’s I know I’m in for trouble right away. The other ’peared to be much younger, but I couldn’t be sure, for she had a veil ’crost her face. And not no lacey thing either, but a piece of muslin with eye-holes in it.

“Next thing I knows, the older bitch—parm me, sir, lady—had me good arm what was holdin’ the whip doubled up behind me back, fit to snap. Gord, she was a strong un!

“‘Sisters,’ she says, ‘I’m a-here to offer any of you what wants it sanctuary at my school. Which of you will come with me?’ Next thing I knows, all my gells is hollerin’ and shoutin’, ‘Me, me, I’ll go, take me!’ Even me own two daughters joined in the tragic chorus.”

Shortarm paused to sniffle and wipe a tear away. “I can tell you, guv’nor, it hurt me deep inside. To think of all the attention and money and high-quality wittles I done lavished on those gells, and then to have ’em turn on me like that. It cut me to the quick.”

“Nails, I fail to see what any of this has to do with our search. . . .”

“Hold on, Coz, it’s comin’.” McGroaty prodded Shortarm, who resumed his tale.

“The elder gell turns to the one in the veil then and says, ‘Vicky, escort the wimmen to the carriages.’ When my shop is empty, she boots me headfirst against the wall. I didn’t wake up for half an hour, and there was no way of tracin’ ’em by then.”

A thrill had shot along Cowperthwait’s nerves at the name of the assistant rescuer. Trying not to betray his eagerness, he fumbled in his purse to reward the sweatshop owner, coming up with a five-pound note.

“Gord, a fiver! Thank’ee kindly, sir. This’ll be more’n enough to replenish my workforce, so to speak.” Shortarm turned to leave, then halted. “Oh, if you find my gells, you’re a-welcome to the older one. She’s kinder used up. But as for the younger—” Shortarm smacked his lips obscenely.

Cowperthwait shot to his feet. “Nails, eject this brute before I give him a good thrashing!”

McGroaty picked up Shortarm by his trousers and shirt. “Them’s the words I been waitin’ to hear, Coz!”

When McGroaty returned from tossing Shortarm out, Cowperthwait was pacing his study, rubbing his hands together. He stopped and grabbed McGroaty by the arm.

“Nails, it all makes sense! The Queen, frustrated by the glacial pace of her government and her remoteness from her subjects, has joined forces with a private benefactress, and now seeks to remedy the ills of her empire firsthand! It’s a noble attempt and speaks well of her character, but we must find her and persuade her that she can do more good from her throne.”

McGroaty rubbed his whiskery chin thoughtfully. “Ackshully, Coz, it shouldn’t be too hard. I can’t imagine any sech school as can house dozens of gals can remain much of a secret from its neighbors.”

“Precisely, Nails. Let us begin our enquiries.”

By that very afternoon McGroaty’s inspired ferreting had met with success. Cowperthwait clutched in his clammy hand a pasteboard bearing a name and address in nearby Kensington:

LADY OTTOLINE CORNWALL’S LYCEUM AND GYNOCRATIC MISSION

NUMBER TWELVE NOTTING HILL GATE

EDUCATION, LIBERATION, VINDICATION

“SORORAE SE FACIUNT ID”—SAPPHO

Cowperthwait hurriedly snatched up a large maple cane from the stand by the door. “Come, Nails, let us be off while it is still light out.”

McGroaty eyed the cane dubiously. “Is that a plain walkin’ stick, or some new infernal device, Coz?”

Cowperthwait chuckled. “The latter, I fear, Nails. Observe.” Cowperthwait opened a breach in the cane, revealing a large-caliber shell. “The trigger is here in the grip. I wager even a superhuman specimen like Gunputty will not be able to easily fend off a charge of this size.”

“With any luck, we won’t run into that towel-headed furriner at all today. Meanwhile, don’t go a-pointin’ that cane at no helpless merchant who wants a few pence extra fer his termaters, like you usually do.”

The pair exited the Cowperthwait manse. There, on the sidewalk, they encountered a familiar face: the gap-smiled countenance of little Tiptoft, the crossing-sweeper.

“Hullo, kind sir. I seen your man scurryin’ about the town and took the liberty of followin’ him back here. This seems like a ritzy neighborhood with a lack of sweeperly competition. I shall reside here henceforth.”

“God’s wounds! You—you can’t encamp outside my house like this. This is Mayfair, after all, not Covent Garden. What will the neighbors say?”

“Doubtless they will be forever in your debt, sir, for securing such an asset to clean-footed traffic.”

To illustrate his utility, Tiptoft dashed out into the street and begin switching away at a huge pile of accumulated manure, sending showers of offal left and right, bespattering passersby who paused to flourish their fists and utter imprecations.

“Stop, stop, that’s enough! Look now, will you take this money and go away?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got me mind fixed on a steady income.”

“All right, all right. Let’s see—do you have any objections to living in my mews, with the horses?”

“Horses is me bread and butter, so to speak, sir. I do not.”

“Very well. You may live in the mews and receive meals and a weekly stipend, provided you ply your trade elsewhere.”

“Agreed! And furthermore, it is to be understood that your honor will have unqualified first-call on me services.”

The two shook hands on the deal. Then Cowperthwait said, “I cannot spend anymore time here dallying. We are in search of a woman.”

“I could help there, too, sir.”

“No, no, that’s fine. Goodbye for now, Tiptoft.”

“Allow me to conduct you partway, sir.”

With Tiptoft sweeping ahead like a dervish, Cowperthwait and McGroaty proceeded toward Kensington, eventually parting ways with their escort near Hyde Park, where the confluence of traffic provided a fertile field for his broom.

Number Twelve Notting Hill Gate was a large edifice in the early Georgian mode, with freshly washed steps and starched curtains in the windows serving to conceal the interior. Using the knocker, which was shaped to resemble the ancient symbol of the Labrys, or double-headed ax, Cowperthwait sought admittance. The door was soon opened part way by an elderly maid, stopping at the short extent of a stout chain.

“No visiting privileges for menfolk,” she said, and slammed the door.

Cowperthwait was both baffled and slightly enraged. “I say—” He resumed knocking. The door opened once more, this time to reveal the snout of a large old-fashioned pistol aimed at his head.

A stern and cultivated female voice spoke. “Perhaps you failed to comprehend my maid’s injunction. We do not permit husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles, employers or lovers entrance. When we admitted your wife, daughter, sister, niece, employee or paramour, it was under tragic circumstances which your presence would only aggravate and reinforce. Now, will you depart, or shall I blow your head off?”

Cowperthwait’s ire won out over any fear. “Madam, I do not know any of the young ladies in your care, unless possibly it be the one whom I seek. My name is Cosmo Cowperthwait, and I merely wish to speak to you about, um, the missing wife of a friend.”

The pistol dropped away. “Did you say Cowperthwait?”

“Yes, that was the appellation.”

“Author of the monograph ‘Sexual Dimorphism Among The Echinoderms, Focusing Particularly Upon The
Asteroidea
and
Holothurioidea
’?”

“The same.”

“One moment.”

The door shut, the chain rattled off, and the door swung wide.

Revealed was an imposing figure of womanhood. Clad in a strange kind of one-piece white cotton garment that ended at the elbows and knees, the woman stood six feet tall with a deep bosom and large hands and feet. Striped lisle stockings and flat athletic shoes completed her outfit. Her hair was sequestered under a plain mob-cap. Her gray eyes radiated a fierce intelligence. Her full unpainted lips were quirked in a smile, as she dangled the pistol by her side.

“You and your servant may enter, Mister Cowperthwait. But just remember that you are here solely on my whim, and may be ejected—or worse—at any moment, if your misbehavior merits it.”

Cowperthwait was somewhat embarrassed at this odd woman’s revealing attire, but sought to meet her on her own unconventional terms. “Madam, I assure you that you are dealing with two gentlemen of the highest propriety and social standing.”

“When one contemplates the deeds that are daily done in society’s name, such a description is no high recommendation. But please enter.”

Once inside, Cowperthwait said, “I assume I have the honor of addressing the proprietor of this establishment?”

“Indeed. I am Lady Ottoline Cornwall, and this is my school. Perhaps you would care to see its functioning?”

“Certainly. I have already been intrigued by what I have heard of your recruitment methods.”

“Desperate times demand desperate measures, Mister Cowperthwait. I am not one of those who believe that idle bemoaning or passivity will accomplish anything. When I see an evil, I move vigorously to remedy it. There is much wrong with this world, but I limit my scope to ameliorating the sorry condition of womankind. I have pledged my family fortune to this establishment, which is dedicated to helping unfortunate girls from every stratum of society. From the warrens of Lambeth to the drawing-rooms of my own posh precinct I extract the abused and maltreated and try to inculcate a sense of their own worth in them.”

Lady Cornwall had brought them to a closed door, upon which she now gently knocked, then opened. Cowperthwait saw inside rows of desks at which sat a class of girls of various ages, all dressed identically with their headmistress. At the front of the room stood a teacher. Cowperthwait eagerly scanned her face for a resemblance to the missing Queen, but was disappointed.

“Here you see some of the girls at their lessons. Latin, Greek, French, geography, and many more subjects are here covered, particularly the natural sciences. We use several of your monographs in this latter area, Mister Cowperthwait.”

Cowperthwait was flattered, and did not know where to look. “I—that surprises me, Lady Cornwall. My papers are not intended for the layman. Ah, laywoman.”

“Our girls are up to it. Thank you, Miss Fairbairn, you may get back to your teaching.”

Shutting the classroom door, Lady Cornwall continued the tour, bringing them to a capacious ballroom. The large space was fitted out with gymnastic equipment of all sort, barbells, skipping-ropes, punching bags. Bales of hay with targets on them even afforded the possibility for some of the girls to practice archery.

“I do not neglect the physical side of my charges either. Eight hours of sleep nightly in our well-ventilated dormitory, plenty of good food and exercise, along with the wearing of sensible clothing—no stays or contorted footgear here—can work wonders in their self-image.”

When McGroaty saw the bows and arrows, his face lit up. “Criminy! I ain’t handled a bow nor arrow since leavin’ the Chickasaws! Here, now, Missie, you’re a-holdin’ it all wrong. Let me larn you what Chief Ikkemotubbe showed me.