The Long Utopia (12 page)

L
UIS BORROWED A
decent morning suit from his theatre manager. Hackett had stressed the need for confidentiality even now, so Luis pleaded attendance at a wedding. At that, he wondered if it might have been more convincing if he’d claimed he wanted the suit for an appearance before the magistrate.

Oswald Hackett, of course, looked peacock-magnificent as he gathered his small party at Charing Cross, where they would board landaus to take them to Windsor.
Small
: there were eight of them all told, eight Waltzers, all men, all about Hackett’s age or younger. Luis had had no idea there were so many in Hackett’s company. He recognized only one apart from Hackett himself: the tall, lithe-looking young man he’d bumped into in the forest.

There seemed no particular pattern to these fellows: some were short and others tall, some tough-looking and some not, some fair and some dark. Most looked as if they were of British stock, understandably enough. Only Luis himself, with the Mediterranean roots of his family behind him, looked markedly less Anglo-Saxon. And all were well kitted out, though some, like Hackett, looked more comfortable in their finery. Luis guessed that some were from rather more privileged backgrounds than others.

Hackett didn’t encourage conversation, and even suppressed introductions. He said sternly, ‘You’re not a bunch of new fags at some minor school. You’re here to put yourself in the hands of Her Majesty, for the purpose of all manner of sly and covert
affairs – whatever my fertile imagination can dream up – and sly and covert it must be, given the nature of our shared talent. And in that case the less you know of each other the more effective you’ll be. For if I don’t know your name I can’t betray you, can I? Which has been a lesson learned by rebels before, from our own Chartists, back through the French when they took agin their king, to the Americans when they turned on the English hand that fed ’em . . .’

Even so, as they boarded their coaches, that tall, skinny fellow made for Luis and slyly shook his hand. He looked about twenty-five, Luis’s own age, and his grasp was stronger than Luis expected. ‘The name’s Fraser Burdon,’ he said. ‘Since we made our acquaintance already in the widdershins forest, there’s nothing much for us to lose by swapping names, is there?’

Luis introduced himself, and in a quick conversation Burdon ascertained how Luis had been found by Hackett, and recruited.

Burdon said, ‘As for me, I met the good Doctor up at Cambridge, where I’m pottering about in the natural sciences. Oswald was up there for a conference on the extinction of species, or some such – rocks are more my bag – and he spotted me “Waltzing”, as he puts it, when I fell off a punt – sooner that than end up in the Cam; I never was much of a hand with the pole. I didn’t want to get wet again, and I knew it was dry just there widdershins. Thought nobody was watching – careless, that. Still, here we are . . .’

Then they boarded the coach, with Hackett, and they didn’t get the chance to speak again.

Windsor Castle seemed to Luis from without an intimidating pile, an excrescence of centuries of wealth heaped up on a core of medieval brutality. And when they were led into the sprawling walled compound through an entrance called the Norman Gate, and faced a mound of earth topped by the ‘Round Tower’, the interior struck him as gloomy and claustrophobic.

That sensation only got more pronounced as the party, passed
off from one flunkey to another, was led through a narrow doorway and deep into the interconnected buildings of the castle wards, at first through grand passageways, but at last finishing up in a remote, murky corner, where a trapdoor led to a staircase down which they descended.

Then they were led by servants with oil lamps through another warren of corridors and rooms, apparently entirely underground. The chambers here were lined by shelves heaped with papers, and with other items only dimly glimpsed as they walked on: hunting trophies and stuffed animals, spears and drums, a kind of feathered headdress. Luis, feeling increasingly enclosed and uncomfortable, was aware that the servants who escorted them, despite their smart appearance, were stationed front and back, and were all big, powerful men with plenty of room for weapons under their loose jackets.

‘You are privileged, gentlemen,’ Hackett said, his voice a respectful whisper. ‘This is a private royal vault. Here you’ve got the records of many reigns, including the present one, and gifts from the col-onies and other nations, and other assorted clutter. And it’s down here that Queen and Consort host their most private meetings.’

Fraser Burdon whispered to Luis, ‘And perhaps it’s appropriate that this should be the centre of the memory of the monarchy. You know where we are, don’t you? Under the original castle on its motte, built by William himself after the Conquest. One of a string of fortresses he established to keep a hold on London. Now Windsor’s the home to a young Queen and her growing brood, but you can never forget that original purpose.’

Luis murmured back, ‘I don’t know about the history, but God, I hate to be enclosed. I’m half tempted to Waltz out.’

Fraser looked at him strangely. ‘But you can’t. Not from down here – not unless this was originally some natural cavern. You can’t Waltz out of a cellar, because there’s earth or bedrock to either side, widdershins or deiseal. Didn’t you know that much? You really haven’t studied your own abilities very much, have you?’

This had never occurred to Luis, who rarely had cause to go far underground. He muttered defiantly, ‘Well, I didn’t know we were prepping for a test.’

At last they came to a better fitted chamber, with decent gaslights casting a clean glow over a smart but not ostentatious suite of furniture, a thick carpet, walls lined with bookshelves, and ceiling-to-floor mirrors that Luis guessed were intended to give an impression of space in this enclosed room. Open doors led to adjoining rooms. It was like the reception room of an unpretentious family of reasonable but not overwhelming means, Luis thought, based on his own limited experience of such places.

A small group of men were already in the room, mostly dark-suited, leaning on the mantel or sitting at their ease. The Waltzers stood in a rather self-conscious huddle on the carpet, but Oswald boldly struck a pose.

At length a major-domo type smoothly effected introductions, and as he did so Luis felt his own amazement grow. A man in his middle thirties, perhaps, stern, sharp-looking, in an anonymous suit, was named only as ‘Mr Radcliffe’. Two burly butlerish fellows at the back of the room were not introduced, and Luis concluded they were either special constables or military men out of uniform, no doubt backed up by others elsewhere. But a grumpy-looking gentleman in his fifties who remained seated, rather rudely, with a sparse carapace of hair and bone-white mutton-chop whiskers, turned out to be none other than Lord John Russell, the Prime Minister.

And a handsome, well-built chap leaning casually against the mantel, in a crisp morning suit but with an intimidating set of whiskers of his own, was Albert, the Royal Consort.

The Great Elusivo had played some tough houses, but he felt utterly bewildered before this audience, even though Albert quickly insisted that no formality of behaviour was necessary. And he wondered whether somebody in the royal circle or the government
– perhaps this sternly watchful fellow Radcliffe – had thought through the consequences if any of the Waltzers had intended any harm to this royal personage. For, if they turned out to be dangerous, where better for such a meeting to take place than underground, from where, as Burdon had pointed out, none of them could Waltz away?

‘Dr Hackett,’ said the Prince. ‘It is very good to see you again.’ His accent was a crisp, heavy German.

Hackett answered proudly, ‘Thank you, sir. Gentlemen, His Royal Highness has taken a keen interest in our – ah – novel proposal of service from the beginning. As I have described before, sir, the talent we share is just as I demonstrated to your assistant Mr Radcliffe that evening in Windsor Great Park some weeks ago. And now, during the Chartist Demonstration at Kennington, I hope we have shown its efficacy in practice. We –
move aside
. I could not tell you how we do it, any more, I dare say, than a newborn babe could explain to you how
he
took his first pace. We find ourselves in another place, a sort of forest. I’ve no idea what the significance of that is, which part of the world it might be – if it’s our world at all. Perhaps we should send a naturalist to explore. Call for Mr Darwin!’

The Prince was gracious enough to laugh at this.

But the dour Radcliffe seemed to lack a sense of humour. ‘Your flash doesn’t impress. It is your utility in
this
world which is of interest to us, Dr Hackett.’

Flash –
a bit of London street slang. The word jarred in this context, taking Luis by surprise. Perhaps there was more to this Radcliffe than there seemed – and, yes, an element of threat.

But Hackett was unperturbed. He said smoothly, ‘Of course, of course. And you understand the principle of that utility, just as I demonstrated in the Great Park. I Waltz into the forest.’ He took a pace to the left to demonstrate. ‘Then I walk through that forest.’ He took one pace forward, two.

As he approached Prince Albert, Luis saw how the butler types at
the back of the room, and indeed Radcliffe, all stiffened, fully alert.

‘And then I come back.’ A pace to the right. ‘Poof! I have disappeared, and reappeared out of thin air,
somewhere else
. Like a cheap stage illusion,’ and he couldn’t resist a wink at Luis. ‘It is not just that I have been unobserved, you see. It is that I have, umm,
bypassed
any obstacle in this world – a wall, a line of troops, the hull of a bank strongroom.
That
is the secret of our utility to you.’

‘You mention a bank,’ said the Prince. ‘It does appear that this faculty of yours would be of uncommon value to a thief.’

‘True enough, sir. And maybe there are fellows out there in the world who would use this talent for such nefarious ends.’

Luis whispered to Fraser, ‘He says it without blushing, despite what he’s told us of his own rakish past!’

‘There are, naturally, few authenticated accounts of the more honourable exploits of Waltzers like us in the past. I can only tell you of family traditions, passed down from father to son, though I do have some scraps of documentation in certain cases . . .’

Fraser whispered, ‘And here comes Hereward the Wake again.’

But Hackett didn’t go so far back this time. Instead he spoke of the Armada. ‘Of course the court of Queen Elizabeth was replete with spies and agents. But my own distant ancestor did more than most to penetrate Philip’s admiralty and return with plans of the invasion fleet. Elizabeth never knew of it, it’s said, but
he
got his hand shaken by Sir Francis Drake. A few tens of years later another ancestor helped destabilize Cromwell and his Roundheads, for their godlessness made them prone to superstition, and they were bedazzled by a bit of fake haunting. Dash on another hundred years and a distant uncle was popping in and out of the camp of the Jacobite Pretender as he marched into England during the revolt of ’45, getting up to all sorts of mischief. And I’ll admit to a bit of work on the other side, when one of my great-great-aunts, of a colonial family, spied on Lord Cornwallis during the American war.’

He sounded to Luis like a patterer in the New Cut, and perhaps
he was overdoing it. But he seemed to be holding Albert’s attention.

‘At any rate here we are, sir, at the beginning of your own long reign, ready to put our talents at your service. Call us your Knights, sir. The Knights of Discorporea!’

That seemed to amuse Albert. ‘Though I own there was no such goddess.’

‘Well, there damn well should have been!’

Albert nodded. ‘I have consulted with Her Majesty on this. We are agreed that it is best that such a – unique – resource as you and your men comprise should be kept secret, within as tight a circle as possible.’ He glanced at Russell, who glared back; the Prime Minister hadn’t said a word, and was evidently resentful at wasting his time on a whim of the Prince, as Luis guessed he saw it. ‘Of course,’ Albert went on, ‘your operations must be carefully controlled at all times.’ And here he looked to Radcliffe. ‘It does seem to me in fact that your greatest value may be in countering similar agencies operating for our rivals and enemies – for I don’t imagine you would argue that such a talent as yours is an exclusively English trait, Dr Hackett?’

‘Indeed not, sir, and you are wise to point that out.’

‘But, yes, we do accept your offer of service. How could we refuse?’ He paced, grave, thoughtful. ‘I have a dream, you know, of unity in Europe and beyond – a brotherhood between the great powers, yes, even between Britain and Prussia. But in this year of petty rebellions many of my own relatives have been ousted from their thrones.’ He glared at the Prime Minister. ‘There are debates at the highest level of government about the destabilizing effects of Palmerston’s foreign policy, but for me this also causes personal distress – distress for my family, and for my ideals. I believe, you see, that we must all, men of honour, serve as best we can. I had it in one of my addresses – perhaps you remember it, Russell? “I conceive it to be the duty of every educated person closely to watch and study the time in which he lives, and, as far as he is able—”’

A grumpy Russell finished for him, ‘“To add his humble mite of individual exercise to further the accomplishment of what he believes Providence to have ordained.”’

‘Well said, sir,’ said Hackett, a mite toady-ish in Luis’s opinion.

‘And that, it seems to me, is precisely what you are endeavouring to do today.’ Albert grinned, big, bewhiskered, magnificent. ‘Go forth then, my Knights, in the name of the Queen, Saint George, and the goddess Discorporea!’

Luis and the rest burst into applause. No other response seemed appropriate.

‘After all that I rather think some refreshment is called for,’ said Albert. One of the flunkeys at the back of the room melted away. ‘And as to your next mission, good Doctor,’ Albert continued, putting his arm around Hackett’s shoulders and walking with him, ‘after your very effective work among the Chartist rabble . . .’