Frankenstein's Legions (14 page)
Talleyrand preferred interesting and so plumped for that future. Regardless of any inconvenience to himself (within reason), he would make it so.
But not today, because today he was playing whist with some witty fillies. Therefore tomorrow. Or shortly. But certainly soon. Probably.
Chapter 12: LIP SERVICE
Talleyrand’s habitual rising at midday threatened to drive Sir Percy Blakeney mad. There were things to do and plans to make but his second-in-command (so he deluded himself) never appeared till the day was nigh done! As if managing all England’s Intelligence Services could be a part-time post!
But because the man (or devil) had his uses, Sir Percy tried delaying his arrival as long as he could bear: meeting the Prince half way, so to speak. However, that compromise involved agony. As a lifetime early riser, and increasingly aware his best moments were now confined to morning, the lost hours scraped Sir Percy’s soul as they slipped by. Therefore there was many the time that he stomped Loseley’s formal gardens in murderous impatience, not seeing God’s glorious creation but an ever darkening red mist instead.
God’s Teeth and toes! What in the Almighty’s name did the Frenchman have to do in that damned bedroom anyway? Sir Percy was aware of Talleyrand’s ludicrous ritual of the cravat, and that he played cards till all hours, but the old fool was so advanced in years he stood in less need of sleep, surely. Blakeney got by on five hours a night or less, and it was a filthy lie to say his volcanic temper had anything to do with that! He’d sacked any number of clerks and servants who so much as hinted at it. Other people were entirely to blame. Like now.
And as for the thought that the Frog might still do the mattress dance, or even display interest in trying… At his age? Disgusting!
Today, after the fifth furious message, Talleyrand finally emerged as the clocks struck one. He looked poised and faultless. You could have sliced bread on the creases of his cravat.
Sir Percy had a mad moment of wanting to vomit over this vision of vanity, to spoil it with last night’s pheasant-and-dumplings, but fortunately the urge passed. The Prince’s limp evoked sympathy for one thing, his artfully concealed special shoe evident to the trained appraising eye. Blakeney had been brought up (with many a reinforcing clipped ear) that it was ‘wicked to mock the afflicted.’
Then Talleyrand punctured the burgeoning Christian compassion. He theatrically passed the back of one hand across his powdered brow.
‘Ohh,’ he sighed, ‘je suis très fatigué après mon travail aujourd’hui...’
Blakeney almost said something unforgivable, but swivelled on his heels and strode off towards the appointed reception room.’God’s teeth: speak English, man!’ he called back. ‘And get a move on, damn y’eyes!’
Sir Percy’s retreating shoulders clenched as he heard (and had to pretend not to) the Prince comment, sotto voce, on the surprising shapeliness of Blakeney’s behind.
* * *
In fact, a full three hours before Sir Percy fumed, Charles-Maurice Talleyrand was up and dressed and already in action.
A week had elapsed since the armed incursion and several days now separated him from his dream visit to Isle of Wight Armageddon. Normal Loseley life was restored.
Accordingly, a staff member, seconded from Loseley’s dairy, aroused his interest in the new day by paying the sweetest lip-service. Talleyrand awoke and knew it was she by feeling her locks all over his loins. Her brother had far shorter hair.
Then, after a Spartan breakfast of brandy-flambéed egg-white omelette, he was ready to face life’s rich tapestry. It would be, however, his own enhanced version of it, not Blakeney’s grey government-issue variety.
The world made its way to Talleyrand via visitors and communications. Journals, letters and informants supplied grist to a mill which ground exceedingly fine. Propped up in bed, the Prince welcomed them all with a gracious smile.
So, the Convention was planning to invade Mantua was it? The regime there (wanted: a term for rule by the indefensible: ‘Disgustocracy’?) would pay handsomely to be forewarned. And Lady Worsley of Appuldurcombe had embarked on her eighth affair of the season, had she? That much-loved lady was slowing down. What was failing: her lust for life or merely lust? Either way, both adulterer (a general) and cuckold (a peer) involved would now be extra... persuadable.
And a Swiss and a lady Lazaran were seeking illegal passage to France were they? And having trouble finding people—even poor sailors—as corrupt as they? In Lewes and Rye? Who would have thought it? To be rebuffed once was misfortune, but twice was sufficient to tug the strands of Talleyrand’s cobweb. A third refusal might even tweak Sir Percy’s more sluggish version...
Talleyrand sipped his morning chocolate and pondered. Yet outwardly he remained unreadable, a behemoth of bland, a mill pond on the stillest day ever. No observer would have suspected the subtleties now slithering about, like iguanas in a pit, beneath that skull. Unless, that is, they knew his reputation (which all Europe did).
Was his intended ‘nudge’ to History turning into a battering ram? Has he been wise to blend two such volatile chemicals? To mix the metaphors, were two dull chrysalides blossoming into alarmingly colourful butterflies? If so, should he swat them or supply more breeze to fill their wings?
It was yet another first division quandary, ranking right up there with the looming debate over whether to wear a white or a pearl waistcoat.
Talleyrand was in benevolent mood that morning. Looking through the very same window that Good Queen Bess had during her visits to Loseley, the green Downs struck him as... perfect. There were carriages travelling along the Hogs Back, off on all sorts of doubtless interesting errands. And he had kept an erection throughout the maid’s ministrations this morning: no mean feat for a man of his years.
So, the pendulum of Talleyrand’s thoughts swung towards ‘yes.’
Yes, he would be as kind as the world (falsely) seemed today. He would give the couple a helping hand. Just as the maid had he.
Talleyrand called his clerk of the day.
‘Xavier!’
‘Highness?’
‘Are you familiar with current case 323?’
‘Intimately, highness.’
‘They are about to commit themselves to the cruel sea. Make it less cruel.’
‘Immediately, highness’
* * *
‘And Lord Lovelace has written,’ said Blakeney.
‘Gracious me!’
It was Talleyrand’s standard one-size-fits-all response, and could be taken to mean anything—or nothing. Over the course of a working ‘day’ it became like Chinese water torture, with the additional potential to squirm under your skin.
After his long wait Sir Percy’s face was already dangerously dark, a collage of ominous reds and purples. Talleyrand really shouldn’t have...
‘Damn me, do you have to keep saying that?’ Blakeney exploded, hammering the table and making the coffee cups jump.
And not only the coffee cups. A Scottish soldier, pistol drawn, looked in to see that all was well.
The Prince drew back in exaggerated shock, throwing up his hands as protection.
‘Gracious me!’
Sir Percy wanted to bury his head (in hands) or bury his sword (in flesh) or, better still, go home to bed; but duty drove him on. He took deep breaths whilst waving the guard away.
‘I apologise for the outburst,’ said the spymaster, insincerely. ‘You must forgive my temper: I haven’t been feeling myself lately.’
Talleyrand almost embarked on a very unwise response, touching upon the guidance to his staff on that subject. Instead, he bit his lip.
It had been a long afternoon, what with the ‘gracious me’s and pile of pettifogging correspondence to work through. Lord Lovelace’s missive lay near the dregs of the in-tray, amidst material getting short shrift out of sheer weariness. After hours devoted to setting up English spy rings and wrapping up French ones, the marital difficulties of minor Lordlings seemed mere milk-and-water stuff, unworthy of important men’s attention.
Yet the heavy paper and embossed coat of arms commanded some respect. As did his and Blakeney’s mutual membership of White’s Club. Sir Percy’s ear had been bent on the subject several times when he sought sanctuary there from the silly world and refuge in a stiff brandy. ‘Put it in writing, dear boy’ he’d said, hoping to hear no more. However, evidently the noble Lord Lovelace was so unworldly as to mistake fend-offs for promises.
Blakeney rescued the letter and waved it before Talleyrand.
‘No need to read it,’ he said, helpfully. ‘I can tell you the gist. He married a flighty piece, Lord Byron’s daughter in fact: not that you’ll have heard of him...’
The lip Talleyrand had bitten was now pursed. To be presumed uncultured by some Saxon oaf...!
‘Anyhow,’ Blakeney sailed on, ‘what’s bred in the bone comes out in the meat, and she’s acted true to form. Dabbled with science, pestered busy men, slept with Lazarans; that sort of thing. Got herself killed by one in fact. The Home Office denied permission for revival but someone did it anyway. Now, she’s on the rampage, dead as a doornail and mad as a hatter: robbing banks, shooting police and generally disgracing the Family name. Plus she’s acquired an accomplice: we have an artist’s impression available from one of the outrages. There’s been so many I can’t recall which...’
In trying to recall, Sir Percy was troubled. He’d spared all of three seconds to quiz the file that morning and the drawing had shared that brief scan. Now a bat shriek of recognition stirred. Was it mere imagination or had that face been vaguely familiar? Trouble was, Sir Percy had so many cases on the go that all but crucial facts were purged from memory lest his head explode.
Now, hours later, he could spare only the briefest mental chase: Talleyrand was waiting expectantly and there remained ample work to do. No: no good: the will o’ the wisp recollection was let go—if it ever existed.
‘Well, the long and the short of it is milord wants us to put men on the case, above and beyond the Police: get it sorted quick. And there’s a jest for you: I get the impression she had men aplenty on her in life. Now, in death, if you please, her husband wants us to put more on!’
Talleyrand pretended to restrain his ribs.
‘Ha ha! Oh, you are too droll, Sir Percy.’
‘Am I? Well, be that as it may, I want to oblige the chap: it’s embarrassing for him. He never explicitly said so but I reckon it’s best if she just... disappears. Back to Heaven—or Hell more likely—which she never should have left. Romney Marsh has loads of room left in it, if y’ take me meaning...’
Talleyrand did. He gathered that many of the English State’s enemies (or mistakes) resided there on a permanent basis, slowly turning into leathery peat-men to amaze future generations.
Sir Percy realised he’d sounded a bit ruthless, maybe even French!
‘There’s laws been broken,’ he expanded. ‘A life lost; serenity of the Realm disturbed and all that, so the legal aspect’s covered. Plus illegal revival’s a capital offence. But I don’t have staff to spare. Have you got any slack? Could you cover it?
The Prince smiled and inclined his head. It was so... luxurious to be able, on occasion, speak the truth.
‘My dear Blakeney,’ he said, ‘consider it done.’
Which, in fact, it was.
* * *
WANTED! WANTED! WANTED!
BY HIS MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY’S GOVERNMENT
REWARD! REWARD! REWARD!
THE SUM OF £5,000 ENGLISH COIN IS OFFERED FOR INTELLIGENCE LEADING TO THE CAPTURE, ALIVE FOR PREFERENCE, OF A
SWITZER
GOING BY SUNDRY NAMES
BUT OFTTIMES PURPORTING (FALSELY SO)
TO BE OF THE FAMILY
FRANKENSTEIN
OF INFAMOUS RENOWN
SAID SWITZER BEING:
ITEM—6 FOOT TALL. SOLDIERLY BEARING
ITEM—IN HIS FOURTH DECADE
ITEM—FAIR HAIRED, COMELY & BLUE-EYED
ITEM—NEATLY MOUSTACHIOED (PERHAPS)
ITEM—WITH ACCENTED ENGLISH
ITEM—BUT ALSO FRENCH & GERMAN
ITEM—LIKELY IN GENTLEMEN’S ATTIRE
ITEM—OF FOREIGN & VOLATILE PERSUASION
ALL REPORTS & APPLICATIONS TO BE MADE TO THE MOST IMMEDIATE CONSTABLE, AGENT OF THE LAW OR OFFICER OF THE MILITARY ADMINISTRATION WITHIN THE BOUNDS OF UNITED ENGLAND OR ITS EMPIRE AND PROTECTORATES.
GOD SAVE THE KING!
* * *
Mere shutting of the stable door after the horse was fled. A face and job-saving gesture. By the time the posters were printed the ‘Switzer’ was well beyond England’s grasp.
And that was because, alas, the disparate bits only clicked when it was too late. Somewhen in the early hours when Sir Percy was in fitful sleep, some of his synapses got together and conspired behind his back (or back-brain). Whether it be to help or hinder isn’t clear but whatever the motive they agreed to pool electric charges to zap open a disused cupboard in his memory.
Its door swung wide and within stood an image of Julius Frankenstein. That bally foreigner from the Hecatomb, the one nearing the end of his usefulness. Allegedly Europe’s foremost Revivalist but actually a bit of a dud, Lazaran research wise. Yet still someone to be kept at all costs from the service of the Enemy.
Whatever comprised Sir Percy’s consciousness when he was unconscious matched all this to various Talleyrand-meeting memories. Those brain cells were much more frequented and their door hinges far less creaky. One contained the police artist’s impression.
Eureka! The two recollections met, matched and mated. Sleeping Sir Percy identified dead, mad, embarrassing Lady Lovelace’s accomplice in crime. An outlaw, murderer, bank-robber and general rapscallion Johnny-foreigner!. On the loose and out of control!
