The Martian Ambassador (10 page)

‘What is?’ asked Blackwood, stepping forward.

‘The dream catcher appears to have been removed from the astral funnel.’

‘What the devil is an astral funnel?’ demanded Blackwood.

‘It’s the main conduit through which information from the Akashic Records enters the cogitator,’ explained Shanahan. ‘The dream catcher is designed to prevent the entry of malicious influences from the ætherial realms, or at least to delay them long enough for us to deal with them.’

‘Could the dream catcher have prevented the djinn from infecting the cogitator?’ asked Sophia.

‘Most doubtful,’ Shanahan replied, ‘but it might have delayed it long enough for one of us to leave the machine and smash the scrying glass, just as you did, you Ladyship, which would sever the link with the Æther, and prevent the entity from fully entering this world.’

‘In short,’ said Blackwood, ‘you’re saying that this machine was sabotaged.’

‘Precisely, sir.’

‘By whom?’

Mrs Cottingley turned from the counter to face them. ‘The answer is quite obvious, my good sir. By one of the De Dananns... although I must admit that the thought is absolutely outrageous.’

‘I must agree with Mrs Cottingley,’ said Shanahan ruefully, ‘on both counts.’

The proprietor shook her head and sighed. Suddenly, she seemed on the point of tears. ‘This will be the ruin of Cottingley’s.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Blackwood.

She glanced at him, a glint of hope in her eye.

‘There is every reason to suppose that this was a one-off event.’

‘Do you think so, sir?’ said Mrs Cottingley. ‘May I enquire as to how you–’

‘No, you may not. For now, I think we will leave the matter here, and I will take no further action against your establishment.’ Blackwood turned to Shanahan. ‘How would you like to take a little sabbatical from your duties here?’

‘A sabbatical, sir?’

‘I may have some use for you, and I assure you I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘Why, I’d be delighted, sir!’ enthused Shanahan, as he flitted back and forth in front of Blackwood’s eyes. ‘That is... if Mrs Cottingley has no objections.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll have none at all... will you, madam?’

‘None whatsoever, sir,’ said the proprietor, still counting her blessings.

‘Then it’s settled. Come along!’

And with that, Blackwood turned and strode out of Cottingley’s Cogitators Limited.

‘What kind of work did you have in mind for me, sir?’ asked Shanahan, who had seen fit to perch himself on Blackwood’s left shoulder as they sat in the cab, headed for Paddington Station.

‘Lady Sophia and I are going on a trip to Somerset, to interview a man who is almost certainly a material witness in this case – if not a direct participant in it – and while we are there, I would like you to return to Faerie and see if you can dig up some information on what happened to the dream catcher in my cogitator.’ Blackwood craned his neck to look at the Helper, feeling like a pirate conversing with his parrot. ‘If it
was
sabotage, I want to know who did it, and on whose orders. Can you handle that, Mr Shanahan?’

‘Indubitably, sir!’ cried the Helper.

‘One other thing: how will I call you if I need you?’

Shanahan shrugged. ‘Simply say my name, with your voice or your mind, and ask me to come, and I shall arrive forthwith.’

‘Very good. Off you go.’

Shanahan bowed, launched himself from Blackwood’s shoulder and vanished through the roof of the cab.

Sophia glanced at the Special Investigator and noted his pensive frown. ‘If someone did arrange for your cogitator to be damaged, what does it mean?’ she asked. ‘What is the larger picture that is being painted?’

‘I’ve been wondering that, myself, Sophia, and I don’t like where my train of thought is leading,’ Blackwood replied. ‘The timing of all this is strange – off-kilter, you might say. I have no doubt that I was targeted for death because of my involvement in the investigation of Lunan R’ondd’s assassination. And yet, I bought the cogitator a few hours
before
Grandfather summoned me and put me on the case.’

‘That
is
rather odd,’ Sophia agreed.

‘Shanahan said that the De Danann operators don’t stay in cogitators while they’re switched off...’

‘That’s right: they only return from Faerie when the machines are activated.’

‘So it would presumably have been a simple matter for one of the De Dananns – or an entity masquerading as a De Danann – to enter the machine after Shanahan and his colleagues had completed the set up procedure, and remove the dream catcher, thus leaving the cogitator vulnerable to infection.’

‘And presumably,’ added Sophia, ‘the djinn was then purposely directed at the machine, with the intention of destroying your mind.’

‘Quite so.’ Blackwood and Sophia looked at each other. ‘Still doesn’t quite add up, does it?’

‘Unless...’ said Sophia, and then gave a small gasp. ‘Unless someone knew that you would be assigned to the case, which means–’

‘Which means that there is a traitor in Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs!’ said Blackwood in a grim, bitter voice. ‘It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The events must have run like this: on the evening of the twenty-second, Lunan R’ondd dies during the banquet at Buckingham Palace; a post-mortem is performed the following day, during which the
Acarus galvanicus
larvae are discovered in his body; while I am buying my cogitator, Grandfather decides to put me on the case and sends for me; while I am away from my rooms, Shanahan and the other De Dananns complete the set up procedure and leave the cogitator; sometime thereafter,
something
enters the machine and removes the dream catcher.’

‘You say “something”, but couldn’t it have been a person who broke into your apartments and sabotaged your cogitator?’

‘I think not, for although you yourself have proved how easily a lock can be picked, I have ways of detecting unauthorised entry to my home: telltale signs which I will not go into now. Suffice it to say that when I returned from Buckingham Palace this morning, I saw no signs of a break-in. But regarding the train of events I have described, the only hypothesis that can account for them is that someone at the Bureau knew of Grandfather’s intention to give the case to me.’

‘Do you have any idea who that could be?’ asked Sophia.

‘Peter Meddings.’

‘Who?’

‘The man who delivered Grandfather’s summons to me. Meddings obviously knew that the Bureau was about to begin an investigation, and he clearly guessed the reason for his own assignment.’

Sophia sat quietly for a moment, digesting this. ‘Do you think that Meddings could be the one who murdered the Ambassador?’ she wondered.

Blackwood shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I suspect that he is merely somebody’s flunky. As to who that somebody is... well, it’s certainly someone with a profound knowledge of the occult.’

‘Including Arabian Star Magick.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But surely we are headed in the wrong direction!’ exclaimed Sophia. ‘Surely we should apprehend this Meddings fellow immediately and question him.’

Blackwood smiled at his companion. ‘I admire your readiness to spring to action, but I don’t believe that would be wise – at least, not yet. Assuming that Meddings is indeed culpable in this affair, it may be better to let him believe he is not under suspicion for a little while longer, during which time we may be able to gather more evidence against him.’

‘And in the meantime,’ added Sophia, ‘Mr Shanahan may be able to come up with additional information.’

‘Quite right. I will, however, telegraph Grandfather from Paddington, to let him know of our suspicions and to ask him to keep an eye on Mr Meddings.’

‘Wouldn’t you run the risk of alerting Meddings by doing so?’

‘I think not. Grandfather has his own telegraph machine in his office, to which no one else has access – not even Miss Ripley...’

‘Miss Ripley? Grandfather’s secretary?’

‘The same.’

‘Is it not possible that
she
might be the traitor?’

Blackwood guffawed at this, then recovered himself and apologised. ‘Forgive me, Sophia. It’s
possible
, of course, but most unlikely, I assure you: Miss Ripley has served the Bureau faithfully and admirably for many years.’

‘I see,’ Sophia smiled. ‘In that case, you must forgive me for impugning her good character.’

‘Not at all, my dear. We must consider all options, after all.’ And then Blackwood hesitated, and fell silent.
Yes
, he thought,
we must consider all options...

*

As the cab approached Paddington Station, Blackwood and Sophia caught a glimpse of the great, grey bulk of an intercity omnibus rising above the platforms. Its pillar-like legs were folded up around it, giving it the appearance of a gargantuan insect, poised and ready to pounce upon some unsuspecting prey. The rear quarter of the hull displayed an advertisement which depicted a pair of Martians relaxing in armchairs in front of a roaring fire, each holding a large mug in his long-fingered hand. Above them, huge red letters declared: MARTIANS LOVE BOVRIL!

‘Is that the West Country omnibus?’ asked Sophia.

‘It is,’ replied Blackwood as he fished in his pocket for the cab fare.

‘I must confess I’m rather looking forward to this journey. I do so love travelling by walking machine,’ she cried as she opened the door and descended to the street with an elegant little jump, leaving Blackwood to hurry after her. ‘I really should do it more often.’

Although he generally disliked frivolity, Blackwood found himself smiling at Sophia’s sudden girlish enthusiasm, finding it as charming as it was surprising. He didn’t particularly care for this new mode of transportation himself; he didn’t feel it was quite natural to travel two hundred feet above the landscape, like some bizarre circus performer on stilts. Nevertheless, it would get them to Somerset in pretty short order.

The West Country omnibus was due to depart within a few minutes, so while Blackwood stepped into the telegraph office to send a message to Grandfather, Sophia bought two first class return tickets to Taunton. They met at the end of the platform and walked to the foot of the wrought iron gangway leading up into the main hull of the vehicle.

As they climbed up the gangway, along with the few other remaining passengers, Blackwood took in the huge hydraulic pistons protruding from their housings in the disc-shaped engine section beneath the hull. They looked to him like the components of a steam locomotive that had been designed by an opium addict and then constructed by a maniacal engineer with delusions of grandeur. Above the engine section was the complex gimbal assembly which kept the hull stable while the machine was walking. Above that, the lozenge-shaped hull itself, one hundred feet long and sixty wide, loomed with a weird magnificence against the overcast sky.

The passengers entered through the main hatch behind the gimbals, and Blackwood and Sophia followed them through and onto E Deck, the lowest level, which contained the control room and various items of electrical equipment pertaining to the running of the vehicle. They then climbed a wide spiral staircase, ascending through D Deck, which was given over to luggage storage, and then C and B Decks, which contained third and second class accommodation respectively, before terminating on A Deck, which contained the first class seating, restaurant and observation gallery.

Blackwood would quite happily have settled into his seat and not moved for the duration of the journey, but he took note of Sophia’s expression and suggested that they observe their departure through the wide promenade windows at the front of the cabin. She readily agreed, and they walked past the restaurant section, in which a couple of liveried waiters were flitting between tables, laying out cutlery ready for lunch.

As they stood looking out at the rooftops around Paddington, they heard a faint hum from somewhere far below in the depths of the vehicle, which rose steadily in pitch until it was a faint but continuous whine. They both took hold of the brass railing beneath the windows as the floor lurched slightly, and Sophia gave a small gasp as the vast metal legs to the left and right of the observation gallery slowly unfolded, dropping out of view as the great walking machine rose upon them.

‘It’s like being in an airship that is somehow alive,’ whispered Sophia, as she looked down upon streets and buildings that rapidly diminished in size until they looked like a child’s toys.

‘Hmm,’ said Blackwood, as the machine moved off from the station, its rubber-shod feet treading with uncanny delicacy along the shallow trenches of the omnibus lanes, with a barely audible
WHUMP... WHUMP.

‘Have you ever been to Mars, Thomas?’ Sophia asked, her eyes now fixed upon the horizon.

‘No, although I must confess that I am tempted to make a trip there one of these days. Have you?’

She shook her head. ‘Although, I also would like to go. One can barely imagine the wonders to be discovered there.’ Her gaze drifted up towards the sky. ‘And one wonders how many other worlds are inhabited... out there in the Æther, and what
their
inhabitants are like.’

‘It’s an intriguing question,’ Blackwood conceded, noting once more the strange, dreamy quality in his companion’s voice. ‘There may well be many inhabited worlds out there in the dark depths of the firmament. After all, our own Solar System possesses two...’

‘Only two?’ Sophia murmured.

‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

She smiled at him, but the expression was small, sad and somehow cryptic. ‘Nothing. Shall we take luncheon?’

They entered the restaurant section, where a few other first class passengers were already seated, and were shown to a table by a waiter. Hanging from the curved ceiling above them, a small chandelier tinkled faintly and swayed almost imperceptibly as the walking machine strode across southwest London.

As Blackwood and Sophia perused the menu, a large, horn-shaped loudspeaker mounted above the forward observation window crackled to life, and a voice said, ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard the 12.45 West Country omnibus to Plymouth. I am Captain Gordon Cavendish, and my co-pilot is Lieutenant Duncan Broadbent. We shall be calling at Woking, Basingstoke, Andover, Warminster, Glastonbury, Taunton, Tiverton and Launceston, before reaching Plymouth at 3.15 this afternoon. We do hope you will enjoy your journey with us. Thank you.’

A waiter approached with a bottle of mineral water, which he opened and poured for them both. ‘Are sir and madam ready to order?’ he asked.

‘I think I’ll have the Indian Omelette,’ said Sophia. Blackwood glanced at her, and felt the blood draining from his face.

She returned his look, and frowned. ‘Thomas... are you all right?’

‘Yes... yes, I’m fine,’ he replied.
Oh God
, he thought.
Eggs!

‘And sir’s choice?’ said the waiter.

‘I, er, I’ll have the lemon sole. And a bottle of your best white wine, whatever it is.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter, and left.

‘Are you quite sure you’re all right?’ Sophia persisted, her frown deepening into genuine concern. ‘You have gone quite pale.’