第 13 页

No—the blue flimsies were still there, his tickets to disaster….

He was almost trampled by a jostling pair of horses. Shocked and angered, Mallory grabbed at the harness of the nearer horse, caught his balance, shouted a warning.

A whip cracked near his head. The driver was trying to fight his way free of the entangling crowd, standing on the box of an open brougham. The fellow was a race-track dandy, gotten up in a suit of the most artificial blue, with a great paste ruby glinting in a cravat of lurid silk. Beneath the pallor of a swelling forehead, accentuated by dark disheveled locks, his bright gaunt eyes moved constantly, so that he seemed to be looking everywhere at once—except at the racecourse, which still compelled the attention of everyone, save himself and Mallory. A queer fellow, and part of a queerer trio, for the passengers within the brougham were a pair of women.

One, veiled, wore a dark, almost masculine dress; and as the brougham halted she rose unsteadily and groped for its door. She tried to step free, with a drunken wobble, her hands encumbered by a long wooden box, something like an instrument-case. But the second woman made a violent grab for her veiled companion, yanking the gentlewoman back into her seat.

Mallory, still holding the leather harness, stared in astonishment. The second woman was a red-haired tart, in the flash garments appropriate to a gin-palace or worse. Her painted, pretty features were marked with a look of grim and utter determination.

Mallory saw the red-haired tart strike the veiled gentlewoman. It was a blow both calculated and covert, jabbing her doubled knuckles into the woman’s short ribs with a practiced viciousness. The veiled woman doubled over and collapsed back into her seat.

Mallory was stung into immediate action. He dashed to the side of the brougham and yanked open the lacquered door. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted.

“Go away,” the tart suggested.

“I saw you strike this lady. How dare you?”

The brougham lurched back into motion, almost knocking Mallory from his feet. Mallory recovered swiftly, dashed forward, seized the gentlewoman’s arm. “Stop at once!”

The gentlewoman rose again to her feet. Beneath the black veil her rounded, gentle face was slack and dreamy. She tried to step free again, seeming unaware that the carriage was in motion. She could not get her balance. With a quite natural, ladylike gesture, she handed Mallory the long wooden box.

Mallory stumbled, clutching the ungainly case with both hands. Shouts arose from the milling crowd, for the tout’s careless driving had infuriated them. The carriage rattled to a halt again, the horses snorting and beginning to plunge.

The driver, shaking with rage, tossed his whip aside and leapt free. He marched on Mallory, shoving bystanders aside. He whipped a pair of squarish, rose-tinted spectacles from his pocket, and slipped them over the pomaded hair at his ears. Halting before Mallory, he squared his sloping shoulders and extended one canary-gloved hand with a peremptory gesture.

“Return that property at once,” he commanded.

“What is this about?” Mallory countered.

“I’ll have that box now, or it will be the worse for you.”

Mallory stared down at the little man, quite astonished at this bold threat. He almost laughed aloud, and would have done so, save that the fellow’s darting eyes behind the square spectacles had a maddened gleam, like a laudanum fiend’s.

Mallory set the case deliberately between his muddied boots. “Madame,” he called, “step free, if you will. These people have no right to compel you—”

The tout reached swiftly within his gaudy blue coat and lunged forward like a jack-in-the-box. Mallory fended him off with an open-handed push, and felt a stinging jolt tear at his left leg.

The tout half-stumbled, caught himself, leapt forward again with a snarl. There was a narrow gleam of steel in his hand.

Mallory was a practicing disciple of Mr. Shillingford’s system of scientific boxing. In London, be sparred weekly in one of the private gymnasia maintained by the Royal Society, and his months in the wilds of North America had served as an introduction to the roughest sort of scrapping.

Mallory parried the man’s knife-arm with the edge of his own left arm and drove his right fist against the fellow’s mouth.

He had a brief glimpse of the stiletto, fallen on the trampled turf: a viciously narrow double-edged blade, the handle of black gutta-percha. Then the man was upon him, bleeding from the mouth. There was no method whatever to the attack. Mallory assumed Shillingford’s First Stance and had at the villain’s head.

Now the crowd, which had drawn back from the initial exchange and the flash of steel, closed around the two, the innermost ring consisting of working-men and the race-course types who preyed on them. They were a burly, hooting lot, delighted to see a bit of claret spilt in unexpected circumstances. When Mallory took his man fair upon the chin with one of his best, they cheered, caught the fellow as he fell in their midst, and hurled him back, square into the next blow. The dandy went down, the salmon silk of his cravat dashed with blood.

“I’ll destroy you!” he said from the ground. One of his teeth—the eye-tooth by the look of it—had been bloodily shattered.

“Look out!” someone shouted. Mallory turned at the cry. The red-haired woman stood behind him, her eyes demonic, something glinting in her hand—it seemed to be a glass vial, odd as that was. Her eyes darted downward—but Mallory stepped prudently between her and the long wooden box. There followed a moment’s tense stand-off, while the tart seemed to weigh her alternatives—then she rushed to the side of the stricken tout.

“I’ll destroy you utterly!” the tout repeated through bloodied lips. The woman helped him to his feet. The crowd jeered at him for a coward and empty braggart.

“Try it,” Mallory suggested, shaking his fist.

The tout’s eyes met his in reptilian fury, as the man leaned heavily on his woman; then the two of them were gone, stumbling into the throng. Mallory snatched up the box triumphantly, turned and shoved his way through the laughing ring of men. One of them clapped him heartily on the back. He made for the abandoned brougham.

He pulled himself up and inside, into worn velvet and leather. The noise of the crowd was dying down; the race was over; someone had won.

The gentlewoman sat slumped in the shabby seat, her breath stirring the veil. Mallory looked quickly about for possible attackers, but saw only the crowd; saw it all in a most curious way, as if the instant were frozen, daguerreotyped by some fabulous process that captured every least shade of the spectrum.

“Where is my chaperone?” the woman asked, in a quiet, distracted voice.

“And who might your chaperone be, madame?” Mallory said, a bit dizzily. “I don’t think your friends were any proper sort of escort for a lady….”

Mallory was bleeding from the wound in his left thigh; it was seeping through his trouser-leg. He sat heavily in the worn plush of the seat, pressed his palm against his wounded leg, and peered into the woman’s veil. Elaborate ringlets, pale and seeming shot with grey, showed the sustained attentions of a gifted lady’s-maid. But the face seemed to possess a strange familiarity.

“Do I know you, madame?” Mallory asked.

There was no answer.

“May I escort you?” he suggested. “Do you have any proper friends at the Derby, madame? Someone to look after you?”

“The Royal Enclosure,” she murmured.

“You desire to go to the Royal Enclosure?” The idea of troubling the Royal Family with this dazed mad-woman was rather more than Mallory was willing to countenance. Then it struck him that it would be a very simple matter to find police there; and this was a police business of some kind, without a doubt.

Humoring the unhappy woman would be his simplest course of action. “Very well, ma’am,” he said. He tucked the wooden box under one arm and offered her his other elbow. “We shall proceed at once to the Royal Enclosure. If you would come with me, please.”

Mallory led her toward the stands, through a torrent of people, limping a bit. As they walked, she seemed to recover herself somewhat. Her gloved hand rested on his forearm as lightly as a cobweb.

Mallory waited for a break in the hubbub. He found one at last beneath the whited pillars of the stands. “May I introduce myself, ma’am? My name is Edward Mallory. I am a Fellow of the Royal Society; a paleontologist.”

“The Royal Society,” the woman muttered absently, her veiled head nodding like a flower on a stalk. She seemed to murmur something further.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Royal Society! We have sucked the life-blood from the mysteries of the universe….”

Mallory stared.

“The fundamental relations in the science of harmony,” the woman continued, in a voice of deep gentility, great weariness, and profound calm, “are susceptible to mechanical expression, allowing the composition of elaborate and scientific pieces of music, of any degree of complexity or extent.”

“To be sure,” Mallory soothed.

“I think, gentlemen,” the woman whispered, “that when you see certain productions of mine, you will not despair of me! In their own way, my marshaled regiments shall ably serve the rulers of the earth. And of what materials shall my regiments consist?… Vast numbers.”

She had seized Mallory’s arm with feverish intensity.

“We shall march in irresistible power to the sound of music.” She turned her veiled face to him, with a queer sprightly earnestness. “Is not this very mysterious? Certainly my troops must consist of numbers or they can have no existence at all. But then, what are these numbers? There is a riddle….”

“Is this your box, ma’am?” Mallory said, offering it to her, hoping to spark some return to sense.

She looked at the box, without apparent recognition. It was a handsome thing of polished rosewood, its corners bound in brass; it might have been a lady’s glove-box, but it was too stark, and lacked elegance. The long lid was latched shut by a pair of tiny brass hooks. She reached out to stroke it with a gloved forefinger, as if assuring herself of its physical existence. Something about it seemed to sting her into a dawning recognition of her own distress. “Will you hold it for me, sir?” she asked Mallory at last, her quiet voice trembling with a strange, piteous appeal. “Will you hold it for me in safe-keeping?”

“Of course!” Mallory said, touched despite himself. “Of course I will hold it for you; as long as you like, madame.”

They worked their way slowly up the stands to the carpeted stairs that led to the Royal Enclosure. Mallory’s leg smarted sharply, and his trouser was sticky with blood. He was dizzier than he felt he should have been from such a minor wound; something about the woman’s queer speech and odder demeanor had turned his head. Or perhaps—the dark thought occurred to him—there had been some sort of venom coating the tout’s stiletto. He was sorry now that he had not snatched up the stiletto for a later analysis. Perhaps the mad-woman too had been somehow narcotized; likely he had foiled some dark plot of abduction….

Below them, the track had been cleared for the coming gurney-race. Five massive gurneys—and the tiny, bauble-like Zephyr—were taking their places. Mallory paused a moment, torn, contemplating the frail craft upon which his fortunes now so absurdly hinged. The woman took that moment to release his arm and hasten toward the white-washed walls of the Royal Box.

Mallory, surprised, hurried after her, limping. She paused for a moment beside a pair of guards at the door—plainclothes policemen, it seemed, very tall and fit. The woman brushed aside her veil, with a swift gesture of habit, and Mallory caught his first proper glimpse of her face.

She was Ada Byron, the daughter of the Prime Minister. Lady Ada Byron, the Queen of Engines.

She slipped through the door, beyond the guards, without so much as a glance behind her, or a single word of thanks. Mallory, lugging the rosewood box, hurried after her at once. “Wait!” he cried. “Your Ladyship!”

“Just a moment, sir!” the larger policeman said, quite politely. He held up a beefy hand, looked Mallory up and down, noting the wooden case, the dampened trouser-leg. His mustached mouth quirked. “Are you a guest in the Royal Enclosure, sir?”

“No,” Mallory said. “But you must have seen Lady Ada step through here a moment ago. Something quite dreadful has happened to her; I’m afraid she’s in some distress. I was able to be of some assistance—”

“Your name, sir?” barked the second policeman.

“Edward … Miller,” Mallory blurted, a sudden chill of protective suspicion striking him at the last instant.

“May I see your citizen-card, Mr. Miller?” said the first policeman. “What’s in that box you carry? May I look inside it, please?”

Mallory swung the box away, took a step back. The policeman stared at him with a volatile mix of disdain and suspicion.

There was a loud report from the track below. Steam whistled from a ruptured seam in the Italian gurney, fogging out across the stands like a geyser. There was some small panic in the stands. Mallory seized this opportunity to hobble off; the policemen, worried perhaps about the safety of their post, did not choose to pursue him.

He hurried, limping, down the stands, losing himself as soon as possible amid the crowd. Some notion of self-preservation caused him to snatch his striped engineer’s cap from his head and shove it in the pocket of his coat.

He found a place in the stands, many yards from the Royal Enclosure. He balanced the brass-bound box across his knees. There was a trifling rip in his trouser-leg, but the wound beneath it was still oozing. Mallory grimaced in confusion as he sat, and pressed the palm of his hand against the aching wound.

“Damme,” said a man on the bench behind him, his voice thick with self-assurance and drink. “This false start will take the pressure down. Simple matter of specific heat. It means the biggest boiler wins surely.”

“Which one’s that, then?” said the man’s companion, perhaps his son.

The man ruffled through a racing tip-sheet. “That’ll be the Goliath. Lord Hansell’s racer. Her sister-craft won last year….”

Mallory looked down upon the hoof-beaten track. The driver of the Italian racer was being carried off on a stretcher, having been extricated with some difficulty from the cramped confines of his pilot’s station. A column of dirty steam still rose from the rent in the Italian boiler. Racing-attendants hitched a team of horses to the disabled hulk.

Tall white gouts rose briskly from the stacks of the other racers. The crenellations of polished brass crowning the stack of the Goliath were especially impressive. It utterly dwarfed the slender, peculiarly delicate stack of Godwin’s Zephyr, braced with guy-wires, which repeated in cross-section the teardrop formula of line-streaming.

“A terrible business!” opined the younger man. “I do believe the burst took that poor foreigner’s head clean off, quite.”