The Steampunk Trilogy (6 page)

6

TREACHERY AT CARKING FARDELS

I
N THE FLICKERING
light of a candle, Cowperthwait peered into the looking-glass atop the chiffonier in the hallway and nervously adjusted his cravat. It wouldn’t do to meet his predictable death looking less than a fashionable gentleman. He wouldn’t give Chuting-Payne the satisfaction of standing over his corpse and uttering some cutting remark about the failings of his haberdasher.

A door creaked. In the mirror, Cowperthwait saw McGroaty appear behind him, carrying a package wrapped in oiled cloth. He turned.

“It done took me some time to find where I laid it up, but here it is.”

“Here what is?”

“The key to you blowin’ that dirty skunk offen the face of the earth.” McGroaty began to tenderly unwrap the object within the greasy rags. Soon lay revealed an enormous weapon, a product of the Colt Arms Manufactory in Connecticut. The gun had a barrel as long as loaf of French bread, with a bore of commensurate diameter. The chamber appeared designed to hold projectiles the size of Cowperthwait’s fingers.

The naturalist attempted to pick up the pistol. He found himself unable to heft it one-handed, and perforce had to grasp the giant’s weapon with both. He made as if to draw a bead on the stuffed orangutang at the hall’s end. His arms shook with the effort of supporting the pistol’s weight, and the gun barrel wavered through an arc of several inches.

McGroaty was smiling earnestly at Cowperthwait’s target practice. (Those teeth of his not missing were chipped.)

“That’s the trick, Coz! Yer onto it now! You may not reckon it, but yer holdin’ the world’s finest Peacemaker. I done toted this little honey all over the globe, and she never let me down once. Hellfire, you don’t even got to hit nothin’ vital to kill that polecat. Jest whang him in the fingertip and he’ll likely die of shock. I blowed the head offen a buffalo with this darlin’ from a hunnerd yards away.”

Cowperthwait laid the monstrous gun back among the rags. His arms were quivering. “No, Nails, I’m afraid not. It simply wouldn’t be sporting, since we haven’t its mate to offer Chuting-Payne. And I fear I’d be stone-dead before I could lift your Colt up to fire. No, you’d best fetch my father’s set. It’s time we were off.”

Reluctantly McGroaty wrapped up his gun, breathed a sigh of consternation, as if unable to fathom Cowperthwait’s finicky morals, and went off to secure the aforementioned pistols.

Soon he returned with a mahogany box. Cowperthwait lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in velvet depressions, were a brace of small pearl-handled pistols.

The selfsame guns purchased by Clive Cowperthwait in anticipation of his duel with Marc Isambard Brunel.

Cowperthwait shed a tear at the thought of his father and mother, and the whole tragic family history. He thought also of Ikky Brunel, who had just promised him a guided tour of
The Great Western,
the marvelous transatlantic steamship about to have its maiden voyage. Now it looked as if he would never get a chance to witness that marvel of this wondrous age. Ah, life—how bittersweet. . . .

“Very good,” said Cowperthwait, closing the lid. “That leaves only a few points of unfinished business. Nails, keep this on your person. It’s my last will and testament. You’ll find that you’re my sole heir.”

McGroaty wiped his eyes. “Reckon I’d better make out my own then, cuz I’ll be coolin’ my heels in the calaboose afore I swing by the neck.”

“Why?”

“Cuz when Chuting-Payne croaks you, I aim to croak him.”

“Nails, I appreciate the sentiment, but please don’t. It would stain the family honor.”

“Ain’t nothing you could do to stop me, Coz, but I promise anyhow.”

“Very good. Now, here is a letter for Lady Cornwall, along with the last of my growth factor for her ward, Vicky. Please make sure she gets them.”

McGroaty overcame his disdain of the Lyceum mistress enough to agree to this.

“Excellent. Finally be so good as to fetch Tiptoft.”

When the sweep appeared, straws in his hair and rubbing crumbs of sleep from his eyes, Cowperthwait handed him an envelope.

“Tiptoft, here’s a draft on my bank for a hundred pounds. You are hereby discharged from my services.”

“Hurrah!” shouted the lad. “I’m off to Australia to make my fortune!”

Cowperthwait patted the sweep on the head and saw him out the door. Turning to McGroaty, he said, “Let’s depart. We don’t want to keep the noble bastard waiting.”

In the trap, rattling through the empty pre-dawn London streets, Cowperthwait tried to gauge his feelings. He was remarkably calm and clear-headed, especially considering neither he nor McGroaty had gotten any sleep since the fracas at de Mallet’s just a few hours ago. He was surprised to find that the prospect of his imminent death did not trouble him in the least. It seemed, rather, a relief to know that everything would soon be over. The failure of his experiments with the salamander known as Victoria, followed by the frustrating and enervating quest for the human Victoria and his disillusionment with Lady Cornwall, had left him weary and dispirited. There seemed little left in life to engage his interests, and, despite his physiological youth, he felt himself a veritable greybeard. Better to have it over with now, than drag through life with this premature ennui. . . .

Soon they had left the sprawling metropolis behind. In under an hour, they were approaching Carking Fardels, the ancestral estates of the Chuting-Payne family, of whom Cowperthwait’s nemesis was the last direct descendant. The sky was lightening in various sherbert tones, birds were trilling, and breezes were stirring the mists that writhed among the underbrush. It looked as if it would be a fine day on which to meet one’s demise.

McGroaty turned the trap onto a lane that diverged from the tollroad. Beneath fresh mint-green foliage they rolled, until they came to a large pair of gates. Waiting there was the magnificent figure of Gunputty.

Leaning close to his employer, the American said, “Iffen you can ee-liminate ol’ Tinface by some scientific slight-o’-hand, Coz, go for it without worryin’ about facin’ his second. I got a scheme to sap that fuzzy-wuzzy’s will.”

Cowperthwait sighed deeply. “Please, Nails, no shennanigans that will spoil my exit from this mortal coil.”

“Just leave that human mountain to me, Chief,” finished up McGroaty mysteriously. At this juncture, the fuzzy-wuzzy in question leaped silently up as postillion and, clutching the carriage’s superstructure, waved them on toward their mortal rendezvous.

Across a dewey field, the trap leaving glistening tracks, and to the edge of a copse of speckled alders. Gunputty disembarked and led the way beneath the trees.

A small discreet clearing was to be found amidst the trees, just wide enough for the requisite paces.

Standing nonchalantly there was Lord Chuting-Payne, dressed in morning-coat and spats. His nose was correctly positioned, and had been buffed to perfection. Cowperthwait could see himself in it.

“I had my doubts as to your showing up,” said Chuting-Payne. Cowperthwait let the insult pass. He felt serenely exalted above such pettifogging. “I trust you brought suitable weapons. . . .”

Cowperthwait silently held up a hand, and McGroaty laid the pistol-box in it. Chuting-Payne advanced, opened the receptacle and selected a gun. “A splendid model, if a bit antique. I recall that the last time I used such a gun was to perform a trick for the Earl of Malmesbury. He tossed a deck of cards into the air, and I shot only those which would beat the hand of euchre which he simultaneously flashed before my eyes.”

McGroaty spat into the grass. Chuting-Payne sneered. “There will soon be a brighter, more vital fluid staining the lawn here, my man, so don’t waste your precious substance. Well, there’s no point in delaying any further, is there?”

McGroaty and Gunputty stepped aside. Cowperthwait noticed his man whispering into the lowered ear of the turbaned Titan, and the next thing he knew, the two seconds had vanished behind a tree.

But there was no time to ponder their actions further.

Cowperthwait and Chuting-Payne advanced to the center of the clearing and stood back to back. Mist coiled around their ankles.

“On the count of three, we commence walking for twenty paces, turn—completely, mind you, for I have no second nose to lose—and fire at will. One, two, three—”

The walk seemed miles. Cowperthwait felt a small wild animal striving to claw its way to freedom within him, but suppressed it. Soon, soon. . . .

Twenty paces. Turn.

Chuting-Payne stood negligently, with arms folded across his chest, allowing Cowperthwait first shot. The inventor raised his gun, shut his eyes, and fired.

Lifting his eyelids, he saw a robin fall dead from the tree behind the Lord.

Chuting-Payne smiled and brought his pistol up. “Before you die, Mister Cowperthwait, I just want you to know that I have found our common Grail. And the scandal I intend to cause with what I have learned will topple the throne, and more than adequately recompense me for the insults I have suffered. Now, address your prayers to your maker, Mister Cowperthwait.”

Chuting-Payne aimed confidently at Cowperthwait, who closed his eyes again, for the last time.

The shot rang out.

Miraculously, Cowperthwait felt nothing. How grand. . . . He had been right not to fear. . . . Paradise, hello!

Cowperthwait opened his eyes.

Chuting-Payne lay dead on the turf, the back of head blown off in a gory mess.

It dawned slowly on Cowperthwait what must have happened. “McGroaty! Goddamn you, McGroaty, you promised! That was hardly sportsmanlike!”

Out from the trees stepped a figure.

It was Viscount Melbourne. The Prime Minister clutched a smoking pistol.

“William—I don’t—How? Why?”

The dapper nobleman calmly removed the spent cartridge from his gun and substituted a fresh one. “I could hardly let Chuting-Payne continue to live now, Cosmo, could I? After what he just said about his plans to embroil Victoria in a hideous scandal. Not after all the work the two of us have put into keeping her name unsoiled. And besides, I rather like you, and owed you a favor. I consider that debt discharged.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t believe in assassination.”

“That was of women, boy. Entirely different set of rules for the other sex. No, I fear Chuting-Payne’s treasonous intentions earned him his death. And besides, without heirs his estate devolves to the throne. I’ve had my eye on it for years.”

A thought occurred suddenly to Cowperthwait. “The Queen! He knew where she was! Now the knowledge is gone with him.”

Melbourne seemed queerly unconcerned. “Yes, rum bit of luck, that. But I could hardly wait any longer to bag him.”

A sudden malaise swept over the young scientist, leaving him disinclined to press the matter further. All he wished now was to be home in bed. Thoughts of those welcoming counterpanes brought up an associated matter, which he now put to the Viscount.

“My creation—it’s been so long since I’ve had any news from you. Is she flourishing? Does she ever seem to—to pine for her old surroundings?”

Melbourne sought to brush the matter aside. “She does well. Her needs are simple, and easily fulfilled. Most of them, at any rate . . . if you know what I mean, eh?”

Cosmo opened his mouth to adjure the Minister not to overtax the chimeric creature, but Melbourne cut him off.

“Well, you’d best be heading home. Oh, don’t worry—there’ll be no legal repercussions. The Crown will handle matters.”

From out of the woods there appeared McGroaty, accompanied by Gunputty. Melbourne raised his pistol, anticipating deadly action from the servant on behalf of his wronged master. Cowperthwait too fully expected that the loyal Indian servant would attempt to revenge his master’s death.

But instead, the Indian merely beamed a bright smile their way! Picking McGroaty up like a child, he trotted eagerly toward them.

“Nails, what—?”

“Everything’s jake, Coz. I just finished explainin’ something mighty beneficial to ol’ Ganpat here. That’s his real name, by the way, after some heathen god or other. I managed to instill some demmy-cratic ideals in him, made him see that iffen his master was to die, he’d be a free man, able to make his fortune with his good looks and exotic ways. We’re plannin’ to get him a job with P. T. Barnum, who’s blowin’ in through town soon. He does a mean snake-charmin’ act.”

Cowperthwait sighed. A regrettable lack of remorse all around here.

But life must go on, he supposed.

Mustn’t it?

7

WHAT EVERYONE ELSE KNEW

C
OWPERTHWAIT SLEPT FOR
a day and a half. His dreams, if any, were painless, and vanished upon waking. Standing over him was McGroaty, bearing a tray heaped high with lavishly buttered scones, a decanter of tea, and a lidded crystal pot full of fresh strawberry jam.

“I thought you might need some vittles by now, Coz.”

Cowperthwait sat up in bed, plumping the pillows behind himself. “Quite right, Nails. Time to fortify the body before attempting to tackle the problems of the mind that yet beset us.”

“I couldn’t’a phrased it no better myself.”

Cowperthwait dug hungrily into the repast. He was amazed at his hunger, having expected to bear some lingering anxiety and consequent loss of appetite over the death of Chuting-Payne. However, even the resemblance of the strawberry jam to Chuting-Payne’s spilled brains was not sufficient to dismay him.

As he ate, Cowperthwait pondered the problem of Victoria.

Chuting-Payne had claimed to know her hiding place. It was obvious the knowledge was fresh, for during a recent meeting last week—at the establishment of a Jewish moneylender reputed to occasionally harbor runaway children—Chuting-Payne had been as obviously ignorant as ever. Therefore, he must have discovered it just prior to the contretemps at de Mallet’s—

De Mallet’s. Cowperthwait ceased to chew. An image of the old bawd materialized vividly before his slack-jawed face.

“Someone
très spéciale 
. . . the chance of a lifetime. . . .”

It couldn’t be—could it? De Mallet’s establishment was the first place Melbourne would have searched. The only reason Cowperthwait hadn’t bothered himself was that certainty. And yet—

Tossing back the blankets, Cowperthwait sent his breakfast flying. “Nails! Nails!”

McGroaty ambled in unconcernedly while Cowperthwait was attempting to insert both lower limbs into a single trousers-leg.

“Nails, we must hurry with all dispatch to Madame de Mallet’s.”

McGroaty winked. “Takin’ care of some other needs now, I reckon.”

“Oh, Nails, you’re hopeless. Just ready the transportation.”

Soon Cowperthwait found himself admitted by a sleepy and disheveled majordomo into the empty parlors of Madame de Mallet’s. (McGroaty was waiting outside; should Cowperthwait’s hunch prove correct, it would hardly do to have the uncouth ruffian present to embarrass the delicate sensibilities of the woman he now fully expected to meet.) The gilt fixtures and flocked wall-coverings appeared tawdry in the light of day that diffused through the drawn heavy drapes. There was a nauseating odor of spilled champagne and stale bodily exudations. The place wore a face far different from its glamorous nighttime image. Cowperthwait wondered which manifestation, if either, was closest to reality.

Hand on the staircase rail, Cowperthwait was hailed by the servant. “’Ey now, Guv’nor, you can’t disturb the girls at this hour—”

“Oh, shut up, man! I’m not here for a roger. For Agassiz’s sake, why is everyone so blasted fixated on their privates?”

In the upstairs corridor something drew Cowperthwait unerringly toward the room that had once held the salamander Victoria. At the door, he knocked softly. A feminine voice responded.

“Is it night already? I feel like I’ve hardly slept. Come in, then, come in, I’m ready…”

Cowperthwait twisted the handle and entered.

The chamber was curtained from the daylight, and lit only by a single candle. The match that had just ignited the tallowed wick was being puffed to extinction by the pursed lips of the woman in bed.

Woman, yes. Now she was plainly girl no longer.

Victoria’s long hair was a soft brown, halfway between the flaxen color of her youth and the foregone darker shade of her maturity. Her face was round and still somehow innocent, her nose and chin somewhat pronounced. She would, Cowperthwait suspected, never look more radiant. These looks, he knew, were slated to be soon captured by the court painter, Franz Winterhalter.

The Queen possessed a commanding gaze which Cowperthwait now found hard to disengage from his own. At last doing so, he took in the rest of Victoria’s dishabille.

She lay with the covers thrown back, wearing the sheerest of peignoirs. Her bust and hips were full, giving some hint of a future stockiness, and she looked ripe for bearing many children. Cowperthwait was suddenly certain that it would not be long before a new little Prince or Princess graced the land.

Yet this maternal aspect of Victoria was still implicit, not dominant. At the moment, she looked anything but motherly. Her exquisite body yet unmarred by any pregnancies, she was as inviting a woman as any Cowperthwait had seen.

On a card-table in a corner was a partially completed dissected picture, one of the puzzles Victoria enjoyed assembling. Next to it rested her inevitable diary.

Cowperthwait dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty—”

Victoria’s voice was throaty. Cowperthwait knew she had trouble with septic tonsils. “You can forget all titles now, silly boy. I’m not queen here. In this house, there are others who know so much more than I, and deserve that title. But I’m learning. Come here, and I’ll show you.”

Victoria lifted her arms out imploringly. Shocked, Cowperthwait stood and came to sit on the edge of the bed where he could press his case more convincingly.

“Your Majesty, I realize that the demands of your high office have caused you untold grief, and that it is only natural you would seek to forget all your troubles by adopting a wanton’s role. But you must realize that the nation needs you. The coronation is imminent. And do not forget the personal anguish you have caused your Prime Minister. Viscount Melbourne is beside himself, wondering where you are.”

“Whatever are you talking about, you foolish man? It was Melbourne who put me here.”

Cowperthwait felt as if his brain were about to tear itself apart. “Melbourne—?”

“Yes, Lambie told me it would be part of my education. And he was so right. Why, I’ve met many of the most important figures in the country, on more intimate terms than I could ever achieve in the sterile corridors of state. Writers, artists, members of Parliament, educators. Men and women both. Why, there were even some common laborers who had saved up their money for ages. And the talk has been almost as stimulating as the loving. The secrets I’ve learned, the bonds I’ve forged, the self-confidence I’ve cultivated, not to mention the tricks I’ve learned that will certainly please my darling Albert when we’ve married—These will stand me in good stead for my whole reign. I shan’t have any trouble getting my way from now on, I feel. Oh, I’ve enjoyed it so! It’s a shame it’s almost over.”

Cowperthwait tried to find his tongue. “Then you have no intention of abdicating—?”

“Of course not! I’m returning to the Palace tomorrow, for the Coronation rehearsal. It’s all arranged. Now, forget all this talk of matters politic, dear boy. Come here to your little Victoria, and let her make everything all better.”

Victoria flung her arms about Cowperthwait, pulled him down and began unbuttoning his fly.

At first hesitant, Cowperthwait soon began enthusiastically to comply.

After all, one simply did not casually disobey one’s sovereign, however demanding the request. . . .

It was no trouble to break into Buckingham Palace under the cover of darkness. Security was quite primitive. As an example, in December of that year 1838, “the boy Cotton” would finally be apprehended, after inhabiting the Palace uncaught for several months. Twelve years of age, he was perpetually covered in soot, having often concealed himself in chimneys. He blackened the beds he chose to sleep in, broke open sealed letters to the Queen, stole certain small geegaws and food, and when caught was found to be wearing a pair of Melbourne’s trousers.

Cowperthwait did not encounter “the boy Cotton” as he made his way down the echoing passages that night toward the Queen’s private bedroom. He followed the directions Victoria had graciously given him earlier that day, after their bout. Cowperthwait had explained his involvement in the subterfuge surrounding Victoria’s absence. It turned out the Queen knew nothing about the mock-Victoria occupying her bed with Melbourne, and he thought he could detect no small jealousy on her part. He did not envy Melbourne the explaining he would have to do tomorrow.

At the same time, Cowperthwait was quite angry with the way the Prime Minister had duped him. He was now determined to secure his Victoria, and have it out with the man.

Only once did Cowperthwait encounter anyone, a patrolling Beefeater whom he avoided by ducking into a niche holding a bust of Ethelred the Unready.

At last Cowperthwait stood outside the royal bedchambers. Without knocking, he let himself in.

Melbourne lay abed with the salamander. When the newt saw Cowperthwait she let out a croak of joyous recognition and slithered out of bed. Completely hairless, her sinuous form combined mammalian and amphibian characteristics in an unearthly beauty. The wig she used to impersonate the Queen graced a stand across the room.

Melbourne leapt naked out of bed, his burly hairy body a gross contrast to the ethereal, sylphlike splendor of the Hellbender.

“Sir,” uttered Cowperthwait, “I know all! You have tricked me in a dastardly fashion. I suppose you had the interests of the country at heart, but I believe there was also a component of unholy lust in your actions. I now reclaim my ward, and leave you to your conscience.”

Cowperthwait took Victoria’s hand and turned to go.

Melbourne grabbed her other hand and held on. “No, don’t take her. You’re right, I am besotted with this creature of yours, have been from the moment I first had her at de Mallet’s. I couldn’t stand the notion of others enjoying her. The Queen’s sojourn away, already long planned, seemed the perfect excuse to arrogate the newt to myself. I can’t do without her now!”

“Sir, let go,” Cowperthwait urged, tugging on Victoria. “Do not make me employ force with you!”

Melbourne did not listen, but instead continued to pull on the newt. Cowperthwait pulled back, and there ensued a tugging match which soon grew to ferocious proportions.

Without warning Melbourne suddenly shot backward onto the bed.

Looking down, he found himself holding Victoria’s severed twitching arm, from which dripped a pale fluid.

“My God!” cried the Prime Minister. “Where have my brutish lusts led me!” He dropped the limb and, cradling his head in his hands began to weep.

Cowperthwait looked at the Prime Minister with disgust. “You have abused a helpless animal, and now feel the appropriate pangs. Let it be a lesson to you that even the highest worldly powers are not exempted from common morality. You may take comfort from the fact that Victoria will quickly regenerate her arm, as she still possesses that newt-like faculty.”

Tossing a blanket around the uncomplaining creature, Cowperthwait said, “Come, dear, let us go.” He left Melbourne weeping.

In the hansom cab heading home, cradling Victoria’s elongated head against his chest, Cowperthwait mused aloud.

“I could wish it were Lady Cornwall by my side at this moment, dear Victoria, but what good would such impossible longing do? No, it is you and I, poor thing. You and I once more.”

Cowperthwait stroked her head, and Victoria butted it against the underside of his chin.

“Ah, my dear, you have been through many rigors in your unnatural life. And much as any man loves his creations, I can only hope that your existence is not further prolonged by very many days. If only I knew your natural span. . . .”

And with that sentiment echoing in the coach, the vehicle rolled on through the night—

—through the decades—

—through sixty-three years, until February 1, 1901, when the same city thoroughfare, draped with purple and white banners (Victoria had in her will asked that the black hangings she abhorred be banned) was thronged with weeping crowds watching the horse-drawn gun-carriage bearing the short coffin of their elderly Queen make its slow way from Victoria Station to Paddington Station, on its way to the mausoleum at Windsor.

Among the mourners was a hunched figure dressed in black, her face veiled from sight. She was accompanied by an elderly bald man with a moony face, leaning on a cane whose hairline joint revealed it to be of a deadly nature. The duo were soon joined by a gap-toothed old codger who was slyly tucking a wallet not his own into his breast pocket.

“So long ago,” said Cowperthwait. “But the cards at Christmas never stopped coming.”

“Wimmen air like elleyfants,” said McGroaty. “They never forget.”

And as if in silent agreement, Victoria pulled back her veil and snapped a passing fly from the air.