Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Page 3

  Where was the adventure tantalizingly presented to him in the stories of the penny dreadfuls? He spied the World Marvels & Wonders he’d brought downstairs with him that morning, wondering why his father hadn’t woken him for the day’s work and suddenly he hated it. Its stupid stories and wild claims, its tales of far-off lands and improbable escapades. He regarded it with loathing for a moment before angrily tearing it up and letting the pieces fall from his fingers like snow before he slumped into the chair and an empty, black sleep.

  That afternoon brought a visit from old Peek, who had young Peter with him. Gideon, bleary eyed and sick to his stomach, let them in, and Peek raised an eyebrow at the empty liquor bottles rolling on the hearth.

  “I’ve brought Peter,” said Peek unnecessarily. Gideon nodded at him. “He’s happy to come aboard the Cold Drake for a spell.”

  “Two of us can’t handle her,” said Gideon.

  Peek nodded and said, “There’s Walter’s lad, Eric, and young Clifford Griffiths.”

  “Am I to crew the Cold Drake with children, then? Do no men want to sail her?”

  Peek shifted uncomfortably. “You know what fishermen are like.”

  Gideon looked into the middle distance. “He should have woken me,” he said softly. “I should have died out there with the rest of them.”

  Peek laid an awkward hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be saying that, lad. What happened, happened. Best not to dwell on it. Say you’ll think it over, at least.”

  “I will,” said Gideon.

  After Peek and Peter had gone, he packed some bread and cheese, took his father’s old spyglass and a handful of World Marvels & Wonders, and headed out. He didn’t know where he was going, but his feet took him up the winding road toward the imposing shape of Lythe Bank.

  When he’d eaten and washed down the food with water from his canteen, Gideon trained the spyglass on the horizon, bringing the factory farm into sharp focus. Could it be nefarious deeds by the Newcastle & Gateshead that had done for his father? It seemed doubtful, as the Cold Drake had been undamaged. Gideon swept his spyglass left and right, some small kernel of hope inside him insisting that he might pick out a tiny figure swimming to shore. But, aside from the factory farm and the three trawlers fishing closer to shore, there was nothing.

  Gideon turned the spyglass on the Cold Drake, and duty wrestled with desire, his calling to continue the family business at odds with a longing to see the world that ached more fiercely than ever. Gideon sighed and stared out to sea as the sun began to descend behind him.

  He heard a sound from over the lip of the promontory, from the beach far below. The coastline was full of crags and pebbles, and Gideon crept to the edge of the grass- tufted cliff and crouched down. The tide had already advanced to cut off the beach, and he could make out no boat moored by the breakwater. But there came the sound again, something wet slapping the large pebbles below. Gideon thought then of the caves and tunnels marbling the interior of Lythe Bank, which everyone said had once been used by smugglers and even pirates. He felt a sudden thrill. Adventure, of a sort, beckoned, and . . . his breath caught in his throat. Something to do with the disappearance of the Cold Drake crew? Gideon edged forward, training the spyglass on the beach below. He could see nothing. He wondered whether he should try to scale the cliff and get a closer look, but if there were indeed villains, then they would have the upper hand, and he’d be trapped by the rising tide. Quickly shuffling backward and packing up his knapsack, he decided to go back to the village and alert the village constable.

  To get to Clive Clarke’s cottage he had to pass Peek’s, where the fisherman’s youngest, Tommy, was sitting cross-legged in the small front garden, drawing with a worn pencil on a scrap of paper. Peek was a prodigious sire of children and Tommy was his tenth or eleventh—and final, after Mrs. Peek had called a halt. Tommy was a sharp child, and keen on drawing, and from the copies of World Marvels & Wonders Gideon sometimes allowed him to borrow he taught himself his letters and copied the illustrations with uncanny skill. The boy waved and gave a gap-toothed grin, all thoughts of adventuring to America apparently forgotten, and his father appeared at the door.

  “Get help,” called Gideon. “There’s trouble at Lythe Bank! Smugglers, perhaps!”

  Peek shook his head sadly. “Go home, lad. And stay off the liquor.”

  Gideon growled with frustration and left the cottage, making for Constable Clarke’s. The officer worked from his own dwelling overlooking the East Beck. Oil lamps already illuminated the window, and Gideon pounded on the door. Clarke, in his shirt and braces, opened at once, his jowls wobbling.

  “Gideon Smith,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about your dad. A fine fellow. What’s to do?”

  “I want you to get a party of men up,” said Gideon. “Investigate at Lythe Bank. Smugglers, or worse!”

  “Not tonight,” said Clarke kindly. “Go home, Gideon.”

  Gideon looked back at the shape of Lythe Bank, black against the indigo dusk. “Then I’ll just have to investigate myself.”

  Investigations, however, were not quite so straightforward. Gideon brooded in his father’s chair, staring out the window until the black sky and the black sea were indistinguishable. And even then, no answers offered themselves; no course of action seemed the best. He could investigate Lythe Bank himself, of course, but he was no fool. If there were villains, what good could he do alone? Like every other Sandsend boy, he knew better than to venture inside the caves and tunnels that crisscrossed the interior of the promontory. Every generation of Sandsend boys had a cautionary tale of one of their number who had ignored the warnings drummed into them since before they could walk. For Gideon’s, it was Oliver Thwaite, who’d gone in there looking for pirate gold one spring day in 1875 and never come out, his ghost joining the grim roll call of those forever lost.

  Over a breakfast of coffee and stale bread, Gideon flicked through his collection of World Marvels & Wonders, hoping some guidance from Captain Trigger would present itself. Lucian Trigger was an agent of the Crown, charged by Queen Victoria herself with tackling the more unusual threats to her globe-spanning empire. Trigger rarely worked entirely alone; he had a coterie of friends who shared his exploits, from the distinguished Yankee Louis Cockayne to the Tibetan mystic Jamyang, to the beautiful dirigible pilot Rowena Fanshawe, the Belle of the Airways. Wherever Trigger roamed, be it the lawless, untamed lands squabbled over by the British, Japanese, and Spanish at the heart of America, or the vast penal colony that was Australia, or even the wolf-haunted forests of Middle Europe and the bejeweled clockwork mysteries of the Tsarist lands beyond, he always had help. And ever waiting for him at home was his faithful friend and companion Doctor John Reed. Who did Gideon have? No friends, as such, because he’d always been a lonesome, bookish child, happy with his own company and that of his family. No family, not now. He had tried Peek, and Peek had thought him a drunkard. He had been to the Law, but Constable Clarke had not seemed of any mind to investigate. He sighed and turned the pages of the magazine, the drawing of the Hero of the Empire proudly standing tall. If only Trigger could guide him.

  His eyes fell on the box giving the address and telephone number for the offices of World Marvels & Wonders. Who, indeed, was to say Captain Trigger couldn’t offer assistance?

  Gulls as big as cats wheeled around the light house at the end of the stone jetty that pointed out to sea, hoping for scraps of battered fish from the tourists who flocked to Whitby. Queuing out of the door of the Post Office was a line of holidaymakers wishing to send telegraph messages or buy stamps for picture postcards. He shuffled along, glancing repeatedly and anxiously at the page where he had folded open World Marvels & Wonders, as though the telephone number might shift or change or disappear altogether. As he neared the kiosks he realized he hadn’t used the public telephones ever before, and was not really sure what the protocol was. He glanced around and met the gaze of a benignly smiling, tall man with a tidy, reddish beard and dark suit,
waiting in line behind him.

  “You need a chitty,” said the man in a pleasant Irish brogue, pointing to a prim woman sitting at a desk beside the kiosks. “You take a number from that lady, and when you have made your call she calculates the cost and takes your money.”

  The man saved his place in line, and when Gideon had procured his chitty his new friend held out a shovel of a hand. “My name’s Stoker. Abraham Stoker. Most friends call me Bram. I am in Whitby holidaying.” He adopted a conspiratorial tone. “I am supposed to be writing, but the weather and location are simply too beautiful for work.”

  Gideon blinked. “You’re a writer?”

  “I try.” Stoker smiled. “Success eludes me thus far, though I’ll have my first novel published later this year, so perhaps we shall see.”

  Gideon brandished the magazine at him. “Do you know World Marvels & Wonders?”

  Stoker peered at the penny blood. “Ah. I am familiar with it, of course. And the adventures of stouthearted Captain Trigger. Although I have worked for some of the story-papers, I have never been published in World Marvels & Wonders.”

  “Oh,” said Gideon. “I must get in touch with Captain Lucian Trigger quite urgently. When you said you were a writer, I thought perhaps you might be acquainted with him. There is . . . there is something of an emergency in Sandsend.”

  There was a thin, sharp cough that echoed around the marble floors. “I believe it’s your turn,” said Stoker gently, and Gideon turned to see the woman glaring at him and the door to the middle kiosk hanging open.

  “Good luck with Captain Trigger,” said Stoker. “I hope your emergency is quickly and sufficiently resolved.”

  “What number do you require?”

  Into the flowerlike transmitter mounted on the top of the central column he enunciated loudly and slowly the string of numbers printed in the magazine. The voice said, “Very good, please hold.”

  After a few seconds another voice said, “You are through to the London Newspaper and Magazine Publishing Company. To whom would you like me to direct your call?”

  Gideon’s dry mouth worked wordlessly for a second, then he blurted, “Captain Lucian Trigger! It is a most urgent matter!”

  “I am afraid I cannot furnish you with a private number for Captain Lucian Trigger,” said the woman. Gideon’s eyes narrowed; was there a hint of mockery in the voice? She continued, “There is a coupon in the latest edition, which, if you mail it to us with two shillings, enrolls you for membership in Captain Lucian Trigger’s Global Adventurers. You will receive two newsletters each calendar year, a membership card, and a pin brooch.”

  “I do not wish to join the Global Adventurers,” said Gideon through gritted teeth. “This is an emergency!”

  There was open laughter in the voice now. “I am afraid Captain Lucian Trigger is adventuring and cannot be contacted. Good day to you, sir.”

  Bram Stoker closed his eyes and held the earpiece so close it hurt to encourage the illusion that his dear Florence was indeed whispering into his ear in the confines of that beeswaxed telephone kiosk, rather than hundreds of miles away in London.

  “I miss you, too, dear,” said Florence. “But Noel is just too sickly to travel, I am afraid. The doctor suggested another ten days, perhaps a fortnight.”

  “Then I shall return to London at once,” decided Stoker. “You will not,” said Florence distantly. “You have worked hard, Bram, and Noel will not improve any more quickly with you pacing up and down the house. Stay in Whitby, relax, and work on your new novel. Noel and I shall join you as soon as he is well enough.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . . ,” sighed Stoker. “I shall ring again tomorrow.”

  Florence was right, of course; he acted as manager for the actor Henry Irving, and it had been an exhausting season. Stoker didn’t know where Irving got the energy. He swore the man would breathe his last on some stage, somewhere. Bram emerged into the sunshine and breathed deeply of the briny air. Noel had but a fever, he told himself. But as he himself had been an invalid until he was seven years old, Stoker did sometimes worry that Noel, now eleven, had inherited some weakness. Still, Stoker had made up for lost time, and he had excelled in athletic and scholarly pursuits at school and college. Noel was of the same makeup as Stoker, and he would be as tall and strong.

  Bram had the publication of his first novel, The Snake’s Pass, to look forward to later that year, but he was already bored with it. His mind buzzed with ideas, notions, and fancies. He had spent his weeks in Whitby listening to the fascinating tales of the salty old fishermen, or walking along the West Cliff and climbing the wild, craggy East Cliff, home to the ruins of the old abbey. They were like two opposing forces, those cliffs encompassing the fishing town, the ancient and modern, the civilized and primeval halves of the same place. If he could unlock his big idea anywhere, it would be here, in Whitby. All he needed was the key.

  Gideon was circling the red post box like one of the gulls spiraling above the light house on the harbor, desperately trying to think of his next move. Captain Trigger would not be so indecisive, so without an idea what to do next. How could he hope to even try to emulate his hero, when he could not even get in touch with him for advice?

  He saw the tall Irish writer—Stoker?—striding out of the Post Office. Hadn’t he said he worked for the magazines? Yes, this was what Trigger would do. Avail himself of help. Perhaps Gideon wasn’t so useless. He put up his hand and shouted, “Mr. Stoker! Over here!”

  Gideon was not short, but the Irishman towered over him. He looked down at Gideon and smiled with recognition. “Ah, Mr. Smith, isn’t it? Was your emergency dealt with?”

  “No,” said Gideon. “They would not put me in touch with Captain Trigger.”

  “Unfortunate,” said Stoker, looking contemplatively down the cobbled street and toward the harbor. “I wonder . . . might I share your burden? My own scribbling is not in the league of the illustrious Captain Trigger’s adventures, but I might be able to offer assistance in some small way.”

  Gideon nodded enthusiastically.

  “Excellent,” said Stoker. “There is a most agreeable little teashop I have been frequenting. Allow me to buy you some refreshment.”

  Over tea and buns Gideon told Stoker what had happened since the Cold Drake had been found abandoned. In the bustle of the busy seaside resort, the sun blazing down, Gideon found his concerns about the noises beneath Lythe Bank seemed somewhat foolish, and he could tell Stoker thought the same from the shrewd gaze the writer cast upon him.

  “A sad tale,” said Stoker. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “You agree an investigation is in order?”

  “I am not a maritime man, I am afraid,” said Stoker carefully.

  “I would not know just how unusual an abandoned ship is.”

  Gideon sighed, but the writer’s attention had been diverted to a commotion outside.

  “Curious,” said Stoker. “Allow me to settle the bill and let us take a look.”

  Gideon saw a body of people moving down the street toward the harbor. Being tall, Stoker could peer above the heads of most men, and he reported a crowd gathering near the little beach between the pier and the East Cliff. Stoker said, “There appears to be a ship perilously close to land, observing a most erratic course.”

  “A Russian, they say,” said a passing man breathlessly. “Schooner, about to run aground on Tate Hill Beach. They reckon it’s deserted.”

  Stoker let the man go and Gideon met his eyes. He said, “Two abandoned ships in the space of a few days is not a usual occurrence around here, Mr. Stoker.”

  The writer stroked his beard. “Then, Mr. Smith, I suggest we investigate.”

  3

  Son of the Dragon

  From the Journal of Abraham Stoker

  A most diverting day. After breakfast, I met an interesting young man with a strange tale. He had lost his father to a mystery of the sea—the family trawler had turned up utterly abandoned. I confes
s I was about to gently suggest that such occurrences, while tragic, were not utterly unknown. Then there was commotion at the harbor, and we saw a rather curious sight: a schooner, sails set, drifting haphazardly toward port and ignoring bullhorn calls from the harbormaster and the coastguard to identify itself and arrest its course.

  The crowd drew back with a gasp as the schooner, with no sign of crew on deck, ran aground on the stretch of sand beneath the East Cliff, Tate Hill Beach. The harbormaster, Randolph, led a small contingent of the local constabulary to the beached vessel. They had been on for mere moments when the police officers, their faces pale and grimly set, returned to the beach and began to move the crowd back to the promenade. There were mutterings of it being some kind of plague ship, and one old maritime type, chewing tobacco and fixing nets with his gnarled fingers, commented, “A ship like that has to fetch up somewhere, even if it is hell.”

  As he spoke, one of the men opened up the hold and from the depths leaped the most vicious-looking black hound. It had a shaggy, lustrous pelt as dark as midnight, and it bounded from the deck to the sand, baring its white, glistening teeth at the crowd, before making for the East Cliff and disappearing. The parallels between this and young Mr. Smith’s own tale were, of course, difficult to ignore. Two abandoned ships in the space of a few days? A mystery was unfolding for certain.

  I had struck up a relationship with the harbormaster, and we had swapped many tales over the preceding weeks. He remembered I had a smattering of Russian, and he asked me if I would cast my eye over the log of the schooner.

  The Dmitri was registered in the port of Varna, on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast. According to the log, the captain had accepted a fortnight prior a commission to deliver a cargo to Whitby, with instructions that the crew was to await delivery at the stroke of midnight precisely a week ago.