Fiendish Schemes Read online

  “Furnish your mind as you see fit,” retorted Stonebrake. “You will still need to deal with Mrs. Agatha Fletcher on some level, whether in person or at the same remove as the great majority of your fellow citizens. There is no escape, whether in the meanest, most ignominious hovel or the most exalted townhouse—so great is the Iron Lady’s influence upon even the minutest aspects of our lives. The threads of this life in which we find ourselves may be spun from Steam, but it is her hand that tugs them into place upon the great loom.”

  The dire poetry of his description indicated to me that Stonebrake was at least partly enraptured by the fearsome woman—if enough tender parts of her former incarnation remained to qualify her of that gender. He seemed to admire as much as I loathed the mere thought of her, without my having made any greater acquaintance than having observed her from my perch in the crumbling observation gallery. I rather suspected that he suffered from that tendency which afflicts so many of the ambitious: to wit, however vaunted his estimation of his own worth and powers, he was ready at a moment’s notice to grovel as a perfect acolyte at the feet of those he ranked above himself.

  Of course, it was a matter of conjecture as to whether the formidable Mrs. Fletcher still actually possessed any flesh-and-bone feet, or whether, in a similar fashion to that fabled Queen of Spain who officially had no such appendages, she had dispossessed herself of those as well. Perhaps they still existed but were hidden, tucked away in some cabinet inside that fearsome mechanical Juggernaut which I had seen make its ritual entry to the intimidated House of Commons. If such were the case, no doubt they sat upon some neglected shelf, next to the shriveled remnant of her now superfluous heart.

  For such was the import of Stonebrake’s further revelations, spoken to me as the brougham conveyed us back to the more familiar, if only slightly hazardous, confines of Featherwhite House.

  “What you must understand,” my companion instructed me, “is that Mrs. Fletcher has embraced the transformative power of Steam, to a greater degree than any other public figure—”

  “Embraced it?” His words sent one of my eyebrows arching upward. “It would seem rather more accurate to say that she embodies it.”

  “Precisely so—and nicely put,” said Stonebrake approvingly. “Yes, you might indeed say that she represents in her self a rigid distillation of these wonders that have been bestowed upon us. And in doing so, she has brought them to their greatest fruition. What for other people are merely amusements, expensive diversions for their idle hours and lives, for her has become the perfect instrument for achieving political domination. From such, it is a given that even greater sources of wealth and power will flow.”

  “From what little I saw, it might have seemed that she had already achieved a surfeit of those things.”

  “As do most men, Dower, you underestimate the reach of a woman’s desires. And in this case, a woman no longer hobbled by a mawkish sentimentality, having abandoned both surgically and in the processes of her spirit those feminine elements that might have impaired her climb to the pinnacle from which she now surveys those aspects of life which she has not yet brought under her command. In place of those weaker personal aspects, she has brought both Steel and Steam. Thus her rebirth into the form in which you beheld her. Indeed, without those puissant forces, she would have realized nothing at all of those longings which she had previously concealed behind the usual decorous modesty. But Mrs. Fletcher was born for these times and has grasped their full potentialities. The lecherous beings you witnessed at Fex, thrashing about in their steam-powered consummations, were but the precursors for that evolution which she alone has realized.”

  “To have undertaken all this,” I observed, “would seem to have required an impressive personality, even while it had been housed in mere flesh.”

  “In that you are correct. Those who remember her from before— and there are at least a few that she lets continue to walk abroad— have described well how her bounding ambitions chafed against the limitations that tradition-bound society places upon women whose creative tendencies would be better expressed in the battlefield of politics rather than endless needlework and ecclesiastical charities. I have yet to come across any record of how she was first introduced to those surgeons and engineers who cater to that wealth-obscured demimonde which forms the clientele of Miss Stromneth and her establishment’s backers. Given the sternly British stolidity of her personality in that regard, it hardly seems likely that she drifted into those circles while motivated for a taste in otherwise illicit excitements. Perhaps it was the smell of money that drew her on—those who long for dominance over others readily see the advantages that wealth can provide in such matters. However it came about, though, it is entirely a tribute to her innate genius that she was able to seize upon the possibilities presented by such transformation. The first few alterations must have been dearly bought, almost surely with commitments to bend the currents of government to those who might otherwise have come under the onerous scrutiny of the authorities.”

  “Such indentures are often the genesis of great political careers.”

  “An astute observation, Dower. And in this case, it was a transaction well worth whatever price she paid, both physical and financial. The redoubtable Mrs. Fletcher’s ironclad transformation, complete with hissing boilers and shrieking valves, have made her into an indomitable force, almost literally crushing her political rivals—just as you witnessed now at the House of Commons. Not only has she vanquished any possible opposition, she has also neatly solved that slight technical impediment to her full participation in the processes of government. Some of the more intellectual members of the weaker sex might bewail their exclusion from that suffrage by which their fathers and husbands are allowed to cast their increasingly nominal votes, but the sternly altered Mrs. Fletcher has circumvented the matter entire. Since she’s been so completely transformed, no-one can be exactly sure whether she is female any longer, or male or whatever. Since there’s no prohibition against androgynes voting or holding office, one might say that the Iron Lady is home free on that count.”

  “How convenient for her.” Without having made the acquaintance of the woman in her previous, less iron-bound incarnation, I nevertheless felt confident that, as Stonebrake had indicated, any loss suffered in this legal attainment was considered negligible by Mrs. Fletcher. “The consequences for everyone else do seem to be a bit dire, however.”

  “Do you really believe so?” Stonebrake seemed perplexed by my comment. “In what manner?”

  “You jest.” Either that, or he was blind. “The members of Parliament seemed rather overawed by the woman—I thought that much was apparent.”

  “True, true—but that is not necessarily a bad thing.” As with all devotees of a new religion, any of its resulting excesses were but motes to his eye. “In their present intimidated condition, they offer no resis tance to her plans for reformation of British society. Indeed, they are utterly convinced that their only hopes for survival—not just politically, but personal as well—are to aid her in those monumental schemes, to the utmost their strength will allow. Thus, we plunge forward into an exciting Future at even greater speed. The world to come rushes toward us with its all-consuming embrace.”

  “I had rather it didn’t.”

  “You have no choice in the matter. Best to become accustomed to the notion.”

  “Scarcely the first time I have been so advised.” I grumpily settled myself back into the brougham’s upholstered seat. “But surely, man, you could hardly believe the wrack visited upon the actual structure of the Houses of Parliament to be so wonderful? The place looked a sodden ruin, as though some great industrial enterprise had been relocated to a tropical swamp.”

  “Such alterations are inevitable.” Stonebrake waved their consideration away with a nonchalant hand. “Her transformation is such, encompassing masses of iron, that she can hardly be expected to move from place to place as we do—thus the railway tracks that have been la
id throughout the appropriate government buildings. And of course, great resources of power are necessary for her to rumble about, imposing her will upon ministers and members alike. The steam conduits that have been engineered throughout the structure, as well as those churning smokestacks above, might seem a depredation to one as fixated upon the well-vanished Past as you are, Dower—but I prefer to view them as the emblems and heralds of our little island having been placed at last upon a sound scientific basis.”

  I endeavoured to remove the whole oppressing memory from my mind. With little success: those once imposing chambers through which I had been dragged weighed uncomfortably upon my soul, as though they had been a hissing and clanking combination of the poet Milton’s satanic mills and a railway terminal larger and louder than Victoria Station.

  Closing my eyes, I attempted to find some comfort in a partial, dreamless slumber before we reached our destination. In this, I was a failure as well. As on so many occasions before, I was riven with doubts concerning not the world’s Future, but merely my own. I might have recklessly summoned up enough moral fortitude to have become involved with Stonebrake and his fellow conspirators—who I now had reason to believe encompassed far worse than Lord Fusible and the other gambling-obsessed Steam Barons—but my spirit still quailed at the further prospects I dimly beheld.

  For it now seemed everything around me had been transmogrified into a nightmare vision of my father’s creations. Rather than escaping from his overarching influence, I felt as though I—and everyone else—has been engulfed by it.

  I turned my feverish-hot face against the leather cushion, damp with London’s seemingly constant exudations, as I sought some impossible refuge from this world’s sharp-edged gears and the scalding forces that set them into such furious motion. . . .

  In this small, pathetic quest, as with so many other things I had desired to achieve in my life, I was soon disappointed. For no sooner had I closed my eyes than the brougham lurched to a sudden stop, violent enough to nearly throw me from my seat. From outside our conveyance came the whickering neighs and sharper clops of the horses rearing backward in their tracks, the driver pulling on the reins doubled in his tightened grasp.

  The shouts of men engaged upon some furious, self-righteous errand assaulted my ears. They spoke not with the high-pitched tones of the rural highwaymen of a long-past day, but with the deeper basso profundo of those secure in their command, acting with the full authority of those empowered to detain ordinary citizens and brigands alike.

  I turned toward Stonebrake beside me. “What is going on?”

  “No need to fret.” He seemed oddly unconcerned about this latest occurrence. “You shall see soon enough.”

  At the brougham’s window appeared a fiercely mustachioed face, surmounted by a bowler hat, its brim pulled low toward beetling eyebrows. He scowled past Stonebrake and directly toward me. “Mister George Dower, I take it?”

  “Possibly . . .” At one time, I would have replied with less caution. “What is the reason for your enquiry?”

  “Don’t muck about with me, lad.” The man yanked open the brougham’s door. “You’re in a parcel of trouble already.” He reached in and grabbed me by my shirtfront, his black-bristled hands coming close to strangling me with their sudden force. “Come along, then—”

  No more than a second passed, before I found myself stumbling to keep my balance upon the wet cobblestones. I briefly speculated that I had been struck upon the head by the truncheon in my attacker’s other hand—for I saw not just him, but a half dozen more, similarly behatted and garbed in officious black overcoats. They closely surrounded me, scowling with an intimidating mien.

  “This is more for your security than ours—” The one who had rudely hauled me from the brougham appeared to be in charge of the general group. At his signal, a subordinate pulled my hands behind me and clapped on a set of manacles. “Otherwise, seeing as how anarchists such as yourself are given to desperate attempts to evade justice, we’d have no choice but to beat you bloody senseless.”

  “Actually, sir . . .” The youngest of the group spoke up. “I’d rather fancy having a go at that.”

  “Time enough,” growled his superior, “when we’ve got this bastard stowed away in a cell.” He nodded in anticipated satisfaction. “Then we can do it at our leisure.”

  “But—” The shock of this unforeseen arrest dissipated—barely so, but enough to allow me to produce an utterance of my own. “Who are you? What is the meaning of this?”

  “As if you didn’t know.” My captor thrust the handle of his truncheon into my stomach, hard enough to double me over. “You’re in the custody of the Metropolitan Police—as well you should be.”

  Clutching a forearm to my belly, I gasped for breath. “On . . .” The words came out in an asphyxiated wheeze. “On what charge?”

  “You’ll have a stack of those to read over. It’ll give you something to do, to pass the hours where you’re going. As for now, being a bloody menace to society should be sufficient.”

  I was shoved toward another, much grimmer-looking carriage, with bars upon its tiny windows. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw that Stonebrake had dismounted from the brougham, seemingly of his own volition. He stood with a casual, unsurprised air with the constables, as though he might have been one of their number.

  “Stonebrake,” I called out to him as I was forced upon the steps leading to the carriage’s dark interior. “Help me—”

  My outburst was not looked upon with favour by those into whose hands I had fallen. This time, the truncheon did indeed land upon my skull, the blow directed from behind. If not of sufficient force to render me completely unconscious, it nevertheless sent the world spinning about me, constituent elements flying in all directions.

  Which left me in utter, toppling darkness when the carriage’s iron doors were slammed shut at my feet. Lying upon its narrow floor, I was distantly aware of the vehicle lurching forward, carrying me to some unknown but still dreaded destination.

  CHAPTER

  15

  A Prisoner Speaks

  Dismissively of Plans

  and Schemes

  THE attentive reader might well recall the distaste I have expressed on previous pages, regarding the unease I had experienced upon being forced to survey various events while ensconced in locations made even more precarious by their elevation. Those judgements now seemed a cause for chagrin, as I discovered that low, secluded places could be even less comfortable.

  I speak of the cell to which I had been conveyed by those agents of the Metropolitan Police that I had but lately encountered on the streets of London. “Encountered” being, of course, a euphemism for having been rendered unconscious through the obviously well-practiced application of a constable’s truncheon upon my skull. A dim memory of transport in a carriage locked from the exterior, with blurred glimpses of the city’s clouds roiling past the barred windows, ebbed from my awareness as I painfully raised myself to a sitting position on a cold stone floor.

  With one hand rubbing the bruised knot at the back of my head, I wincingly examined my confines. The cell was of such limited dimensions that I would scarcely have been able to stand upright or stretch out my arms to their full extent. The only illumination came from a flickering lamp somewhere in the corridor outside, the feeble glow barely able to make its passage through the bars of the minute window in the riveted iron door. More by the sense of smell than sight, I perceived a rusting bucket underneath the chain-swung bunk at one side, that being the cell’s only furnishing. The filth-crusted pail had presumably been placed there for hygienic purposes—or if not, it certainly seemed to have been so used by legions of the cell’s previous unhappy occupants.

  Seating myself on the bunk, as far from the odorous receptacle as possible, I bleakly contemplated my situation. This seemed a new low point in my progress through the world. If I had previously not considered that such was possible, then the blinders had certainly been lifted fr
om my eyes. How much wisdom mankind attains, when its individual specimens remind themselves that things can always get worse.

  Such was my philosophical conclusion, quickly reached. But its broad strokes did little to limn the exact details of my predicament. The literal aspect of my conveyance hence—being dragged from the brougham en route back to Featherwhite House, then menaced by policemen who had subsequently made good on their threats, and at last the jouncing, semi-conscious ride in the locked carriage—was all more or less retained in my thoughts, jumbled as they still might have been. As was also the image of the traitorous Stonebrake, so obviously in league with the police, poised in chummy familiarity with them.

  Or perhaps he was one of them—that dark suspicion entered my mind now. In some lesser or greater capacity—perhaps as a paid informant, one of those loathsome individuals who make a shabby living by selling out their unsuspecting confederates, or even an actual member of the Metropolitan force. By now, given the unsettling things I had witnessed, no possibility remained which I was willing to rule out of bounds. The one element they had in common was the degree to which I had been hoodwinked by the artful Stonebrake, whoever and whatever he might be in reality. As to what motive he might have had in so deluding me—that was even further beyond conjecture.

  Leaning forward on the bunk, I agitatedly chewed upon a knuckle, castigating myself for the folly of having ever trusted the man. It seemed a fundamental injustice in the Universe’s composition that an Englishman could not simply go about his plans for suicide, as I had been doing, without being interrupted therein and inveigled into less productive endeavours. If I had but the opportunity to confront the villain . . .