Philip José Farmer's The Dungeon 06] - The Final Battle (9 page)

Father O'Hara seemed to hold a clue to that riddle!

And now Clive had learned that his brother Neville, in search of whom he had set out upon his adventure, had also returned from the Dungeon. If Neville was back, then what of that other baffling trio, Philo B. Goode and Amos and Lorena Ransome?

Clive leaped from his chair and bolted for the door.

"Mr. Folliot!" Clarissa Mesmer called after him. "Mr. Folliot, where are you going? Mr. Folliot!"

Clive paused in the doorway but a moment. "To Tewkesbury! I must go to Tewkesbury! Farewell, du Maurier! I hope you are not disappointed with the answer you find to death's mystery! And you, Madame Mesmer—it has been a pleasure making your acquaintance!"

 

The blackness outside was as nothing compared to the blackness Clive Folliot had encountered in the Dungeon, and the loneliness of this deserted London street was as nothing to the loneliness Clive had encountered in the Dungeon.

No, the fog that billowed around him as he stood on the stone steps of du Maurier's house—and only now did he realize what a large and splendid establishment that house was—seemed like an old friend welcoming him home to England. The ghostly gaslights that lined the kerb and the windows that were illuminated were like welcoming eyes. The cobblestones of the thoroughfare felt comfortable and familiar beneath his boots.

He jammed his military cap onto his head and strode toward the nearest intersection. For the first time he examined his accoutrement, finding it completely in order and trim. He even carried a ceremonial saber in a scabbard depending from his belt, and a purse full of currency at his waist. Did Her Majesty's officers wear the same uniform in 1896 that they had in 1868? Clive smiled at the . thought of a man from 1836 appearing for formation in 1868. Were he to reappear like a figure from the past, he would face curiosity, ridicule… but that was a small problem compared to the others he faced.

The intersection led to a street vaguely familiar to Clive. He was certain that he had been there before, but the buildings seemed to have changed.

Of course! he realized with a start. In twenty-eight years, stately Georgian buildings would have fallen into disrepair and ruin, greed-driven land speculators would have bought them up to be demolished and replaced by the atrocities considered smart by newer, cleverer generations.

Clive strode along, his heart filled with pangs of recollection. For a moment he thought of making his way to Plantagenet Court, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Annabella Leighton. But he knew that she was no longer there. His descendant Annie had given him the history of her family, and he was aware that Annabella, despairing of his return to give a name to the child he had got upon her, had long since departed for the New World. Why, he might be a grandfather by now!

He picked up his stride. He came to the entry to an underground railroad station and contemplated briefly taking passage on a train to carry him to a major railroad terminus. But he feared to bring himself to do so. It was too much like reentering the Dungeon.

He shuddered and passed by.

He had become disoriented midst the unfamiliar architecture of this modern London, and when he saw a window gleaming across the way and heard the sounds of commerce and social intercourse from within, he headed toward the establishment.

What was the hour? It had already been full dark when he arrived at du Maurier's home, but depending on the time of year—he didn't even know the time of year!—nightfall might come anywhere from five o'clock in the afternoon to eight in the evening. And making allowance for the time he had spent with du Maurier and Madame Mesmer, it still might be anywhere from an early and respectable hour to shortly before dawn.

Surely the quiet and almost wholly deserted streets he had traversed suggested that the hour was indeed very late.

He stood before a lighted window and peered through. The neighborhood, he realized, had altered in nature as he walked, and he was now in a working-class section not very far from the West India Docks.

Another irony, he realized. For it had been from the West India Docks that he had sailed aboard the
Empress Philippa
that early morning in 1868. Where now were the captain and crew of that ship? Where the other passengers, including the mysterious mandarin who had proven to be his onetime batman, Quartermaster Sergeant Horace Hamilton Smythe, and the trio of Philo B. Goode and Amos and Lorena Ransome?

He swung open the door of the lighted establishment and was staggered by the volume and intensity of the light, the noise, and the odors that assailed him. Clearly he had found his way into a lower class dive, and he hesitated, thinking that it might be wisest to beat a hasty retreat and seek elsewhere for passage to the railroad terminus.

But he had no chance to retreat.

Almost before his eyes had had a chance to adjust to the increased illumination, he found himself taken by both elbows and half-invited, half-dragged into the room. Not that the two individuals who had seized him did so by virtue of brute force. No, they were two of the most astonishingly attractive—and forward—women he had ever encountered.

He had seen slave women for sale in Zanzibar; he had encountered African maidens who thought no more of showing themselves as naked as Eve than did an English lady of showing her flashing eyes. But he had never seen women as done up to arouse the animal side of a man as were these two.

One of them had blond hair, a heart-shaped face, long, curving eyelashes, rouged cheeks, and painted lips. Her gown, of a brilliant shade of blue, was cut so low at the bodice that her more than ample breasts were clearly visible to the taller Clive Folliot. Her arms were naked from shoulder to elbow, her long gloves covering them from that point to her fingertips. Her skirt was generous, but the gown was cut so closely to her torso that every curve was clearly visible.

Her counterpart, grasping Clive by the other arm, had hair of a shade of red that clearly Nature had never given her. Her eyebrows were darkened and her eyes ringed with paint so that her viewer's attention was drawn to them and the startling green shade that contrasted with her hair but was matched almost perfectly by her gown. The bosom of this garment was cut low, although not as low as that of her partner. But as she twisted in place, Clive became aware that the back of her garment was cut in a declivity that extended far below her waist.

He gasped and started to back away, but the women drew him forward. The blonde said, "Look 'oo we 'ave 'ere, dearie!"

The redhead said, "This is the prettiest fing I've seen tonight, ain't it?"

They laughed, and before Clive knew what had happened to him he was halfway across the room. A long bar of mahogany wood stood against one wall of the establishment, and a crew of bartenders handed out beverages and took payment for them. In a distant corner of the establishment a small stage bore a trio of females harmonizing wistfully to the accompaniment of a three-piece orchestra. The refrain of the song, and (Clive presumed) its title, was "Her Hair Was Hanging Down Her Back." Both the lyrics and the singers' delivery were startling to Clive, accustomed as he was to the more sedate practices of a quarter-century earlier.

The two women maneuvered Clive to an empty table, apparently the only such in the establishment.

"Have a drink, sweetie," the blonde urged Clive.

"Get a bottle," the redhead amended. "A bottle and three glasses and we'll have ourselves a party, we will!" She leaned toward him and he smelled the gin on her breath and the perfume in her hair.

"I have to go," Clive pleaded.

"In a bit, dearie."

"Soon's we've 'ad our party, cutes."

The tables surrounding Clive's were packed with burly men and flashy women. A broad-shouldered tough in a striped shirt and seafarer's cap turned and fixed Clive with a curious stare.

"Will ya have a look at the fancy Dan, mates?" he addressed his companions.

"Ain't you in the wrong part of town?" another seaman growled.

"You think you're goin' ter amuse yourself, taking in the lowlife, then beating it back to your swell friends, brigadier?"

Clive shook his head, frowning. "Now, look here, you men, I just wandered in here looking for a railroad station, and I'll be very happy to leave if someone can simply show me the way."

"Just wandered in!" the first seafarer roared.

"Show me the way!"' the second one mimicked, following the words with derisive laughter. "We'll show yer the way, fancy Dan, if that's what yer wants!"

The seamen were on their feet and heading, none too steadily, toward Clive. His two female companions, no longer plastering themselves to his scarlet-clad arms, were squealing and scrambling to get away from the imminent battle.

Clive was glad that he hadn't had time to consume any liquor. He leaped to his feet and balanced to meet a potential attack. He thought for a moment of the saber that was part of his accoutrement, but left it in his scabbard. If he could limit the confrontation to a verbal level, he would be relieved. If not, then let it at least remain a battle of bare fists, not the lethal hardware of war.

 

The two bruisers came at Clive, fists raised, looks of menace and determination on their faces. Carousers at nearby tables drew back. Clive's two erstwhile friends seemed to fade into the crowd. Even the singers on the stage and the musicians clustered before it grew quiet.

It appeared that fights were not uncommon in this den. If anything, they were looked upon as a frequent source of amusement.

The first tough who had spoken to Clive leaned across the table toward him. Clive, standing to face the man, realized that the bruiser was a full head taller than himself and proportionately more wide. His breath carried a dizzying mixture of tobacco fumes, alcohol, and another essence that Clive could only guess was dope of some sort. The man was of dubious race. His skin was swarthy, his eyes carried an exotic look, his hair was worn long, plaited into a greasy queue that hung down his grimy striped shirt.

The second tough hovered behind his companion, darting menacing looks and gestures around his massive shoulders.

The first tough said, "We don't like your kind aroun' here, mister! Fancies and swells what thinks they's better 'an us. Comes aroun' here lookin' for fast women and cheap thrills!"

Clive was on his own feet, facing the man. "I told you, my good fellow, that I was merely looking for the railroad terminus. These two ladies chose to make my acquaintance, not I theirs."

He looked around but the redhead and the blonde had disappeared.

"I'm gonna teach you a lesson, Mister Redcoat!" The ruffian lifted the table that separated himself from Clive and hurled it sideways. It crashed to the floor, sending spectators scrambling for their safety.

The man raised a beefy fist and launched a crude blow at Clive's face. Clive ducked the blow easily, feinting with his own fist to keep the fellow at bay. Behind the big man he could see his smaller companion and hear him calling advice. Still farther away, Clive caught a glimpse of the huge mirror that backed the serving bar, and the bartender standing before it, observing the confrontation.

The big man launched another blow, this time with more care than he had the first, but with equal lack of effect. The blow was a straight jab with his fist, and Clive evaded it with a simple shift of his head.

Enraged, the man attempted a brutal kick. His muscular legs were encased in thick-soled boots, and Clive suspected that if he should ever be knocked down by the man, his ribs would fall rapid prey to that heavy footgear.

But the lessons that Clive had received in personal combat were coming into play. He had fought countless boxing matches with his brother Neville, and while Neville was the more accomplished fighter—and also possessed far stronger instincts to compete and punish, while Clive's predilection was to cooperate and assist—still, the younger twin had picked up many a useful move. He had learned both fencing and further lessons in fisticuffs at the behest of Horace Hamilton Smythe while serving with the Imperial Horse Guards, and his fighting prowess had been perfected, willy-nilly, in his journey through some eight levels of the Dungeon.

As the giant bruiser hurled his massive boot at Clive, Clive stepped aside and slipped behind his assailant and added his own strength to the man's momentum by the simple device of shoving him with both hands, as hard as he could.

The bruiser staggered forward, lost his balance, and tumbled into the crowd.

Jeers rose. "Not so tough tonight, Bruno!"

"What's the matter, man, losin' yer touch?"

"Bruno's takin' a lickin' for once!"

And even a few encouraging calls directed at himself. "Nice work, Redcoat!"

"The toff's a slick one, i'n 'e?"

"Where'd yer learn that, fancy Dan?"

Clive turned to face the giant Bruno, who was struggling to regain his feet. He heard a scuffling behind him, and a voice—a woman's voice, perhaps that of one of his erstwhile companions—called a warning.

He whirled in time to see Bruno's smaller companion charge at him, a heavy-handled dagger in his hand.

Clive was able to sidestep in the nick of time, accelerating his second attacker into his still wobbly first. There was a resounding thump as the two of them crashed to the floor, but Clive realized now that his attackers had further allies. Moans of protest rose from the crowd, but hands remained unraised in Clive's defense as a half-dozen ruffians arrayed themselves in alliance with Bruno and his first confederate.

Clive backed away, trying to avoid being surrounded and sapped or stabbed from behind, as he was sure would be his fate if his enemies managed to circle him. He scrambled through sweating men and perfumed women until he stood with his back to the bar. No fewer than eight men, a phalanx four wide and two deep, confronted him. The giant Bruno had also drawn a dirk, and he and his first confederate stood front and center, crouched and ready to attack.