The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (15 page)

‘You
can’t come in now, go away!’ And Jones jumped up and down. Before him upon the
doorstep stood a slim and elegant woman. She was dressed in the most funereal
black, with a thick veil cloaking her face.

‘I
have an appointment to see Mr Rutherford,’ she said politely. ‘Please present
him with my card.’

‘He
can’t see anyone and anyway he’s gone upon his holidays.’

The
lady’s blackly gloved hand extended towards the little bobbing figure.

‘Please
show him my card,’ said she.

‘He
is not seeing anybody. Eeeeeeeek!’

The
eeeeking
on the part of Jones was occasioned by him being suddenly lifted from his
feet by a single ear and drawn up to the veiled face of the young woman who was
standing upon the doorstep. This young woman now whispered certain words into
the tightly gripped ear of the dangling troll called Jones, then let him fall
to the steps.

Jones
looked up with fear in his bloodshot eyes. ‘I will fetch the master at once,’
said he, meekly holding out his hand for the card. ‘If you would care to wait
in the hall?’

Miss
Violet Wond entered the house of Mr Ernest Rutherford and stood in the hall,
viewing the stuffed Maori with distaste whilst tracing runic figures upon the
plush carpet with the tip of her black parasol. Jones the troll scuttled away
up the staircase, down which presently came Mr Ernest Rutherford. The chemist
had a broad smile on his face.

‘Miss
Wond, I presume,’ said he, tucking the lady’s card into the top pocket of his
white work coat. ‘I have no idea what you must have said to Jones, but he is
most eager to make you a cup of tea.’

‘I
never take tea,’ said Miss Wond. ‘Except with the parson, of course.’

Mr
Rutherford stopped dead upon the staircase, one foot hovering in the air. He
had actually heard that, had he not?

Taking
tea with the parson was a euphemism employed by the lower classes when
discussing a sexual practice that even in these times of enlightenment could
earn you at least six months’ hard labour if you were caught at it in the back
row of the music hall stalls.

‘Excuse
me?’ said Mr Ernest Rutherford.

‘Many
of my relations are members of the clergy,’ said Miss Wond. ‘One must observe
the social graces when one is in ecclesiastical company, mustn’t one?’

‘One
must,’ said Mr Rutherford. And he lowered his hovering foot and continued down
the stairs. ‘I understand from your letter that you wish to discuss certain
sensitive matters. We must do this in private, I feel.’

The
chemist led the veiled lady to the door of many padlocks and then into the room
that lay beyond. As he locked the door behind him, his guest seated herself on
one of the oaken benches.

‘This
room certainly has wood,’ said Miss Violet Wond.

‘Would
you care for a cordial?’ asked Mr Rutherford. ‘I generally offer my guests
champagne, but it is somewhat early in the morning for that, I feel.’

‘Champagne
will be fine,’ said Miss Wond. ‘I have lately arrived from Mars and am still
rocket-lagged, as I believe the expression goes.’

‘Quite
so,’ said the chemist, repairing to his maple cabinet and drawing out a bottle
and a pair of fluted glasses. ‘I understand from your letter that your
permanent residence is on Mars. Do you know Mr Septimus Grey?’

‘The
Governor of the Martian Territories is an intimate friend of mine.’

Mr
Rutherford raised an eyebrow as he uncorked the champagne. There was no doubt
in his mind that this woman’s conversation was laced with suggestive remarks.
But of course, as a gentleman, it was not for him to comment on this.

As he
poured champagne, he said, ‘Madam, by your veil and your attire, might one
assume that you have recently suffered a loss?’

‘One
might
assume
so,’ said the lady, accepting her champagne.

‘But
it is
not
the case?’

‘Not
the
case.’ The lady lifted her veil sufficiently to admit the champagne glass.

‘Then
you may raise your veil here.’ Mr Rutherford set down the bottle and toasted
with his glass.

‘I
wear the veil for protection,’ said the lady.

‘Ah,
mosquitoes and suchlike. You will have no need of it here.’

‘Not
for
my
protection.’ The lady lowered her champagne glass. Her champagne
glass was empty.

‘I
see,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘Or rather, I do not.’

‘And
it is better that way.’ The lady in the veil held out her glass for a refill.
Mr Rutherford took up the bottle and performed this pleasurable duty.

‘Well,
to business,’ he said. ‘According to your letter, you have a scientific project
that you would like me to become involved with.’

‘There
is no man in the Empire more qualified than you to fulfil my desires.’ The
champagne glass disappeared once more beneath the heavy veil.

‘Quite
so. Perhaps you would be so kind as to outline your requirements — your letter
was somewhat vague on details.’ Mr Rutherford settled himself without comfort
onto one of the uncomfortable chairs. His mysterious guest produced a large
envelope from somewhere about her person and handed it to him. Mr Rutherford
removed the contents and examined them with interest.

Time
passed. Mr Rutherford became engrossed. The lady rose and refilled her glass.
Further time passed and finally Mr Rutherford said, ‘Well, I never did.’

The
lady turned her veiled face towards him. ‘Are you capable?’ she asked.

‘Capable?
Well, yes. The theory appears sound, and I cannot immediately fault the
equations. But whether it is possible—’

‘I
know it to be possible,’ the lady said.

‘Well,
anything is possible,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘Except perhaps for Jones being
crowned the Queen of the May.’

‘Then
you will do it?’

Mr
Rutherford stroked at his chin. ‘Let me understand this,’ he said, ‘so there
can be no ambiguity of word or thought. This item you wish me to formulate —
might it be described as a membrane?’

‘That
word is as good as any,’ said the lady. ‘It cloaks the wearer and confers
certain properties upon them.’

‘Indeed
it would appear to.’ The chemist topped up both glasses. ‘It would confer upon
its wearer abilities that could rightly be described as superhuman.’

‘The
power of flight,’ said the lady, ‘and a degree of invulnerability.’

‘That
might be a contradiction in terms,’ said Mr Rutherford, ‘like being
a bit
unique.
Although this project is certainly
a bit
unique. The passage upon the
absorption of light, for instance—’

‘Invisibility,’
said the lady. ‘Light bent upon a molecular level.’

‘I
don’t know what to say. It is a work of genius. This could revolutionise so
very much — society could be changed for ever.’

‘That
is not my wish.’ The lady shook her head. ‘There are elements involved of which
the general public must never learn.’

‘Ah,’
said Mr Rutherford. ‘You are referring to the magical element.’

‘Precisely.’

Mr
Rutherford nodded thoughtfully. ‘And there is the “rub”, as the bard once put
it. For me to engage in this project would mean to flout interplanetary laws.
The magic of Venus is deeply involved and it is illegal to practise Venusian
magic upon Earth.’

‘I
won’t tell if you won’t,’ said the lady, in a most coquettish tone.

‘In
all truth,’ said the chemist, ‘you tempt me. The physics involved is
revolutionary. There is an atomic principle here that I would never have
fathomed. But should I be discovered to be engaged in such a project I would
be carted off to prison, probably thereafter to be dispatched to a court upon
Venus at whose hands I would doubtless meet an ugly end.’

‘I
would reward you for your work in a manner you would not find disagreeable.’

Mr
Rutherford raised an eyebrow once more. And sighed.

‘Dear
lady, I cannot,’ he said. ‘I am earning a reputation in my field of endeavour.
I am presently engaged in something that in its own way might also change the
course of history.’

‘The
Large Hadron Collider,’ said the veiled lady, ‘and the top—secret project
attached to this.’

Mr
Rutherford, who was sipping champagne, sneezed some into his nose. ‘You know of
this?’
he said. ‘How do you know of this?’

‘I
have friends in high places,’ said the lady. ‘Close friends who confide to me
all manner of information.’

‘Ah,’
said the chemist. ‘I must remain firm, I regret.’

‘Peruse
the equations once more,’ the lady suggested, ‘particularly the section
regarding the negation of gravity — surely that has some resonance with your
present endeavours.’

‘Well
…’ said Mr Rutherford, and he scratched at his head.

‘You
would have my permission to apply them as you wish. And I will of course pay
handsomely.’

‘It
is not the money,’ said Rutherford. Although to a certain degree it is
always
the money. ‘Although—’

‘Do
what I require and I will furnish you with something you require. Something
physical.’

Mr
Rutherford sighed anew.

‘A
spaceship,’ said the lady. ‘I am informed that in order to complete your
present work you require a spaceship to convert into a vehicle that will travel
through t—’

‘No,’
said Mr Rutherford. ‘Do not speak the word, not even here. But yes, I do
require a spaceship. And spaceships do not become available to purchase.’

‘I
own a spaceship,’ said the lady. ‘I arrived here in it yesterday. It is called
the
Marie Lloyd
and it is yours to do with as you wish if you will
create what I require.’

Mr
Rutherford put down his glass and buried his face in his hands.

‘Would
you like some time to think the matter over?’ The lady in black rose to her
feet and placed her glass beside that of Mr Rutherford’s.

‘Well,
yes. Well, no. Well, I don’t know.’

‘Then
perhaps I can help you to make up your mind.’

The
chemist sighed once more.

‘Look
at me,’ said the lady in black, ‘and listen to my words.’

Mr
Rutherford looked up from his face-burying. ‘What of this?’ he asked.

‘A
terrible wrong was done to me,’ said the lady, ‘a terrible wrong that has made
me the thing that I am. I will show you something that few have seen and fewer
could possibly understand. It will shock you deeply to see this, but you, as a
man of science, will understand what you see. Then you will know why I require
what I do from you, and if you are possessed of a soul, you will do this thing
for me. Prepare yourself’

And
with these words said, the lady slowly raised her veil.

Ernest
Rutherford stared and stared in awe.

As
the lady lifted high her veil, tears sprang into the chemist’s eyes.

‘Oh
dear God,’ said Ernest Rutherford. ‘Oh, sweet lady, who has done this dreadful
thing?’

‘Will
you do what I ask of you?’ the lady said.

‘All
and more besides. Whatever I can.’ Mr Rutherford’s face was ghostly white and
both his hands were shaking.

The
lady in black lowered her veil and extended her hand to be shaken. ‘I feel
certain that we will enjoy a most satisfying relationship. You look as if you
might have trouble getting up, so I will take care of myself Farewell for now.’

And
with that, Violet Wond took her leave, swinging her parasol.

15

rim
were the thoughts of Cameron Bell and glum his disposition.

A
night spent at his desk in the company of brandy had done nothing to lighten
his mood. The cries from the street that awakened him to a new day brought no
joy whatever.