The baker had left a loaf on my doorstep, and the milkman had put a pint into a jug I remembered seeing in the back office. Mr Whybrow had certainly been thorough when he made arrangements for me to come.
I made my first, leisurely, breakfast by the fire and set off on my forty-yard commute to work, harking back to all the London shopgirls who were, effectively, workhouse inmates in all but name – long hours for tiny money with most of that going in rent for insanitary little garrets, insecurity of position, plus the eternal subservience and the risk of employers misusing them and discarding them when things went too far - yes, I could count my blessings on having come to Sparkle of Sound.
I found the shop empty. Mr Whybrow must have been in his workshop. I couldn’t help wondering what sort of place he lived in; knowing him as I did, I would not have been surprised to find him slinging a hammock in his workshop, like Mr Quilp in The Old Curiosity Shop (Yes, our scanty workhouse library had included Dickens, although my experience had indicated that nobody in any position of authority there had ever read his works). I knew that Mr Whybrow’s own domicile would be a niggling mystery until I actually saw it, although I knew better than to angle for an invitation. Nor would I sneak a look during any absence of his; like Bluebeard, he probably had ways of knowing that I had been there.
In the absence of anything else to do, I thought I might as well give the place a good sweeping out. So where did he keep the broom? I couldn’t see any cupboards about, and he wouldn’t leave that sort of thing standing around in view of the customers – of course. Silly me. The cellar.
I opened the door and was almost bowled over by a fug of dampness and a pallette of aromas that were at the same time tarry yet spirituous, overladen with that sharpness of freshly-cut metal. But of the depths before me, I could see nothing. I could have been staring into the Infernal Pit, for all I knew. Something about the black chasm seemed to be inviting me to my doom.
“That’s just your imagination,” I told myself. “Stop being silly.” As if to confirm my resolution, my foot grated against a lantern which the thoughtful Mr Whybrow had left at the top of the stairs. Kindling a light from the stove, I descended the stairs, and stopped dead.
Cellars were supposed to contain old furniture, dusty rocking horses, and picture frames minus picture. This – I can only describe it as a one-man factory. I could name perhaps half of the machinery there, although the purposes of the rest were quite easy to fathom. I guessed that this must be where Mr Whybrow did his heavy building.The cellar was dark and dank, but anything unwholesome in the air would have been from the proximity of the sea. He actually kept this place surprisingly clean.
At the opposite end to the machinery stood some barrels, but I was more interested in a peculiar contrivance standing up in one corner. It was shaped roughly like a rifle, but there the similarity ended. It had a pistol grip and trigger, to confirm not only how it was meant to be held, but also that it probably fired something, although as to what it fired, I could not discern.
I was given no chance to probe the peculiar device any further. I recognised Mr Whybrow’s footfall down the shop stairs, and ran back up just as he arrived on the shop floor.
He gave me a curious frown. “What were you doing in the cellar, Miss?”
The Bluebeard analogy returned to mind, nudging my guilty nerves. But the truth was nothing to be ashamed of. “I was looking for a broom, sir.”
“Oh, that’s behind the office door. I’m not surprised you missed seeing it. Look, I need you to model something for me; you’ll need to change – including your hair. What you have can’t possibly go with emeralds. Look for something from the Regency.”
Emeralds. Regency. Right. Suspecting that he was testing my commonsense, I excused myself and nipped out to the yard to change into what I hoped would meet his requirements. The black hair felt unnatural, but it went with the merchandise and this was something I’d have to get used to.
I returned to find him setting up a camera on a tripod. From the counter, presided a crown ablaze with diamonds, the dazzle tempered by deep aqueous emeralds like huge boiled sweets. Mr Whybrow only looked up to notice my arrival; his lack of comment on my appearance was, I guessed, as close to approval as I was likely to get.
“I need a new picture of the Marie-Louise; the one I have is out of date,” he explained. From what he’d already told me about his models, I could guess why that was. But he mistook my momentary wonderment. “You’ll have noticed that I stick to old-fashioned prims. No sculpts or mesh; they only bring fresh problems. Not all the customers can even see them. Neither do I use bling scripts, and any customer who insists on one is to be told to look elsewhere. Mark that, Miss.” He held up a Finger Of Warning, and I nodded my understanding. “My wares produce a delicate natural sparkle; bling is for the Mainland. This particular item is the zenith of primwork – the real one has over 1,000 diamonds in it and mine must have close to that. It was made for Napoleon’s second wife, in 1810. There’s always someone who’d like to make a grand entrance with the Empress of France’s headpiece,” he concluded with a wink.
It was the most spectacular thing I had ever seen. I could not help gazing, mesmerised at the symphony in gemstones, but already my previous experience of his heavyweights was planting misgivings in me. “I’d have thought that anyone buying this would wear it every chance they get,” I suggested, by way of a diversion.
“It isn’t that simple.” He shook his head. “Apart from the weight, it’s considered bad form to be seen in the same ballgown twice. Society is not as stringent with jewellery, but a lady needs a collection from which she may select something to match whatever colour her gown is.”
I dared a probe. “It must be a great satisfaction, to see your work on the dance floor.”
Mr Whybrow shook his head again, this time with a little irritation. “I did explain that I don’t socialise. I can’t afford to. The tiniest contact, in a social context, can lead to other, deeper contacts which in turn can lead to ruin. The only safe limit is zero.” He looked at me sternly but his voice was soft, encouraging. “This will be another of your responsibilities, Miss. There are more women than men here, and it’s seen as a mark of accomplishment to enter a ball with a male on one’s arm. Should an invitation arrive in the post, I’d be grateful if you could decline it automatically on my behalf.”
A thousand unpleasant situations flew up in my mind, foremost of which was the image of Mr Whybrow working quietly while I held back society matrons, analogised as speeding locomotives. But Mr Whybrow cleared his throat and brought me back to the present business.
“Now, the Marie Louise. If you could just wear it and adopt a natural pose?”
“Of course, sir,” said I, hiding my unease. This had to weigh twice as much as the last monster of his that I’d tried. As I discovered when I picked it up; had I not braced myself against the sudden drag, it would have fallen from my fingers, with dire results for the workmanship. Hoping that I looked more demure and confident than I felt, I settled it on my head with Mr Whybrow looking studiously on. He appeared solely interested in how the crown looked on a real wearer; his scrutiny warned that he would not be patient were I to show any sign of stress.
The crown sank into my hair and instantly I felt an iron clamp tighten around my forehead. For an instant I thought, “This is normal, it’s only gravity,” but then the clamp tightened; slowly, inexorably. I found myself unable to move, which sent a streak of panic rocketing up my spine. Now certain that something was dangerously wrong, I tried to speak, but through no force of will could I form any words. In that way irrelevancies have of appearing in moments of danger, I harked back to the workhouse religious instruction classes, and wondered if this had been one of the obscure and ingenious tortures that had been perpetrated on Saint Someone-or-other.
My vision contracted, blurred at the edge. Mr Whybrow began to frown with concern; I realised that he was speaking but his voice came to me from the end of a long tunnel.
“Miss Bluebird? Are you all right?”
The wall which had formed his backdrop fell away, and the ceiling swung down to take its place, with Mr Whybrow’s face remaining fixed in my centrespot. A gentle impact shook my back, and for a moment everything went black. A small circle of vision expanded before me; the first thing I saw was Mr Whybrow wearing the crown as, presumably, the safest place to put it. He was kneeling over me; I must have fainted. Aware that I had let us both down, I tried to raise myself, but he restrained me with a gentle hand.
“Just catch your breath for a moment. In deeply through your nose – hold it and count to three – out slowly through your mouth – “
I complied, feeling stronger with every breath. He nodded to me to continue while he spoke.
“I’m sorry, Miss Bluebird; I’d rather hoped we’d get away with wearing that on the ground. You see – Caledon has a particular little quirk of gravity all of its own; if one is wearing too many objects, or scripts, or textures, gravity multiplies to the point where one is unable to move or speak – paralysed, as it were. In extreme cases, one can lapse into complete unconsciousness for several minutes. Don’t worry,” he added, with a lopsided grin that was supposed to cheer me. “You’ll always come back.” Eventually, he silently added.
Despondently, I raised myself onto my elbows. “Does this mean I’m no use to you, then?”
“Good Lord no; it happens to all of us – it isn’t even a constant; the strongest of us can be affected sometimes. If you can stand, let’s head up to the workshop. You’ll be all right now, and the gravity’s more attenuated up there. I mean, it won’t affect you so badly,” he added by way of clarification, making room to let me up. I noticed that he did not offer a hand.
“Fellow called Einstein summed it all up,” he continued, apparently unconcerned for my well-being since I could speak. “Time slows down with the increase of mass.”
For an instant, I thought he was implying that I had a big bustle, but that was just force of habit and my spark of anger died before it could ignite anything. A tingle of curiosity enchanted me at how much more fluidly I could move, four thousand metres up in his workshop. The very situation of being so high was utterly foreign to my experience; hitherto, the only ones I had known to have reached such an altitude had been mountaineers, of whom I had learned only from scanty accounts in the workhouse library encyclopedia. And those gentlemen had been too preoccupied with getting up and down to have remarked on the effects of gravity at such altitudes; it went downwards if they were careless, and made a mess – and that was all they’d needed to know.
“I presume that since you live up here, you’re acclimatised to the gravity, sir?” I chanced, while he set his camera up. He obviously did not live in the workshop, which was too spartan for even the most hardened ascetic.
“Mm-hmm. I am rather apt to forget that not everyone is used to the experience,” he deflected, ducking under the camera hood.
Oh, well. It had been worth a try.
Apprehensively, I stationed myself in front of the great scarlet curtain, and tried the crown again. It pressed down on me like an anchor, but beyond having to stiffen my neck against its weight, I noticed no ill effect. Nevertheless, I remained alert for any return of the symptoms as I followed the directions of Mr Whybrow’s waving hand, and turned myself this way and that until he was satisfied.
There followed a couple of magnesium flashes that seared my retinas for a moment, but that was it. Satisfied, Mr Whybrow emerged from the camera hood.
“Thank you, Miss Bluebird; that’ll do just fine. I should get this out on sale today. Now, why don’t you head back to the shop? I’ve a few things to do here.”
Still slightly dizzy, I assayed a curtsy. “Very good, sir.”
“Oh, and well done on your choice of gown. You couldn’t have picked a better one.”
“Thank you, sir.” I was certain that he’d said it purely for future guidance, not as a compliment. But he had already betrayed, just for a moment, his human side. And how many London merchants would have found their staff in coal and fodder? No, had I passed out in Bond Street or Mayfair, their sole concern would have been that their merchandise hadn’t got dented on my way down.
Returning to the shop, I changed back into my other gown. It was more comfortable than the Regency bosom-squeezer, and there was no point in manufacturing laundry.
As Mr Whybrow was going to be busy, it seemed safe to have a closer look at that enigma in the cellar. Standing my lamp on a nearby bench, I hefted the weapon – I was certain that that was what it had to be. It was the right shape, and had a trigger and handgrip. But it was otherwise all wrong. Instead of steel, there was copper and even I knew that copper offered absolutely no advantages in an age when steel was easily available. It was well-balanced, though, and no heavier than I suspected a conventional rifle would be. But what could this thing do, that a rifle or shotgun couldn’t? The blade sight was particularly intriguing. It was too large, and why did this one have four vanes, situated around the muzzle at right angles? Surely, only the topmost would be of any use?
Turning it over, I espied a little switch at the butt end, nestled discreetly in an angle of the stock where, I presumed, it could not be clicked accidentally. With some trepidation, I nonetheless clicked it quite deliberately. I almost dropped the bloody thing as the breech area emitted a hum, not unlike some of the organ tones I’d heard in the workhouse chapel. The barrel began to tingle with a subtle, living blue glow.
There was only one way to lay this mystery to rest once and for all. Fire it. My commonsense told me to take it outside and let it off over the quayside, where it could expend its payload safely over the sea. But there was too great a danger of being observed and this thing, I sensed, was something Mr Whybrow would sooner keep to himself. So, I cast about the cellar for a suitable target. Something solid – ah, perfect!
At the other end of the cellar stood a number of barrels. One, standing apart from the rest, was labelled “Endorsing ink.” It struck me as strange that Mr Whybrow would order forty-five gallons of the stuff, but it would make a superlative target. Too thick to leak out of a bullethole, and if I managed to turn the barrel around, the hole would escape immediate detection. I might, if challenged, even get away with blaming it on mice.
Bracing the stock to my shoulder, I swung the blade sight into line with my eye and the barrel. It was indeed well-balanced; quite comfortable to hold, even. I locked my every joint solid; I had no idea how the thing would kick. Then, remembering that dear old warrant officer’s advice when correcting some of the boys’ war play, I squeezed the trigger gently but with decision.
The gun startled me more by not kicking back, as a scintillating flash of something burst from the muzzle, heading straight for the barrel of endorsing ink.
Then a lurid flame filled the cellar, and a mighty hand threw me back with a wash of heat as the barrel exploded. The bang was the last thing I heard for I don’t know how long; my next awareness was of lying on my back as bits of wood fell about me with clatters I could only feel rather than hear.
The blast, in the confined cellar, had almost blown my head apart from the inside; my chest felt as though a locomotive had hit it. But I was obviously still alive. That old workhouse discipline was the first instinct to surface. I was in trouble. But the question was; how much? Drunkenly, I raised myself onto my elbows and surveyed the scene in the light of my lantern which, through fortune rather than design, had escaped the blast.
I had obviously cost Mr Whybrow 45 gallons of something, although clearly not endorsing ink. Not black powder, either; there was no smell of sulphur in the air. The ceiling appeared undamaged, albeit scorched above the spot the barrel had stood. Bits of barrel stave lay strewn about me like confetti; I shrugged off a hoop that had played hoopla with my neck and won.
Shakily, I clambered to my feet. The idea occurred to me – yes, I know it was silly – that I could somehow gather up all the bits of barrel and chuck them into the sea, relying on the tide to carry them out. Other than the barrel of exploding ink, the only visible signs of damage were the displacement of the other barrels, which a few minutes’ labour would rectify, plus that scorching which he might not even notice.
Then my hopes subsided once more. He would notice the missing barrel of whatever-it-was. And for the first time, I noticed my dress. I’d learned in school of what Mount Vesuvius had done in AD 79, and I looked like one of the just-made-it survivors. Oh, my God! You won’t get away with blaming this on mice!
And then my panic really skyrocketed. Heavy, rapid footsteps thundered across the floor above me, and down the stairs. In that moment, it would have been a mercy if I’d thrown up or fainted; at least it would have deflected the fury which, I was certain, would make Vesuvius look like a cheap squib on bonfire night. And a damp one, at that.
Mister Whybrow stood at the top of the stairs, a demon incarnate. He looked me over cursorily before concluding that I had no injuries to excuse me his wrath. “What the bloody hell happened here?” he blazed, his voice echoing from the walls to amplify him into an army of demons, or whatever the plural is. “And don’t tell me you were looking for a broom this time.”
It was only then that I realised that my hearing had returned. I briefly considered dissolving into a flood of tears, as the usual female escape route from the inescapable. But I knew that this would not work with Mr Whybrow; it was more likely to make things worse. Then my commonsense took hold and I did what I’d always done in the workhouse. I told the truth, but – slanted, slightly.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I was going to sweep up down here and I noticed that – thing.” I pointed to the mystery weapon which was lying near by, apparently undamaged. It seemed to be smirking at me. “I just moved it a little and – “
“Uh-huh.” While he was taking in my tale, his eyes were taking in the cellar. He spotted where all the disintegrated barrel staves had come from, and a glance at the scorch marks on the floorboards above put a final full stop to his conclusions. “And you’ve absolutely no idea what that ‘thing’ is, I suppose?”
It’s something from the Old Testament that they never teach us about. I settled for shaking my head with a deliberate clueless look. There was nothing I could say, anyway.
He considered a moment and then softened. “I call it a cattle-prod. We’ve been getting too many of a certain type of person passing through, recently; deliberately dumping objects to turn the place into a gravity well. Quite lethal. So I prepared a little surprise of my own, should such a miscreant chance to pass this way. What you have just seen is – well, I’ve yet to find a voltmeter capable of measuring that thing’s output, but I reckon it to be about forty thousand volts of electricity, or a hundred times as much as they’ll be putting into that new City and South London Railway which you might have heard of. And you, Miss Bluebird, have just discharged that at a barrel of brandy.”
So that was what it was! “Brandy, sir? But it said – at least, I’m sure I remember it saying – “
“I know what it said. Do you expect people to label the real contents on the outside, with bloody HM Customs and Excise sticking their snouts in left, right and centre? Use your loaf, girl.”
Glumly I looked at the ground where bits of barrel stave reminded me that there was no getting around this one.
Mr Whybrow sighed. “You weren’t to know. You’ve hardly been here five minutes; you couldn’t possibly have learned everything.” He tossed his head at the stairs. “That’s a good dress ruined beyond all hope. You’d better go and change; you’re supposed to be modelling jewellery, not bloody Brock’s Fireworks.”
“Very good, sir.” A curtsy would have seemed mocking in my state, so I substituted a glum bob of my head as I went to the stairs. I was half way up when he called after me.
“Oh, and Miss Bluebird? You were lucky you hadn’t aimed that thing at the wall. The bolts would have bounced about the cellar and done to you what you did to that barrel.”
He gave me a wink as he spoke. That did it. All the stress coalesced in me as if I’d fired that damned cattle thingy down my throat, and I knew that once the tears started, they would have to run their natural course. I had to get out of there before they did so.
“Thank you, sir.” I bit my lip and scurried out, almost tripping over myself in my haste to be away from him before that big lump in my throat burst. He was perfectly entitled to send me packing, but he had risen above that and had overviewed all the facts quite dispassionately, and had even made it clear that I was not to be sacked. That stung me more deeply than if he’d given me a good honest violent dismissal, and turned me out to face a long, reflective traipse back to the workhouse.
I didn’t bother trying to maintain my dignity; in any case, it wasn’t as if it was perfectly normal for folk to walk through SouthEnd with their clothes half-incinerated off them. I just threw my remaining decorum to the four winds and ran.
No voice called after me as I bolted for the door. I did not know whether that was good or bad. I only knew that I should, with any luck, manage to dam up my tears until in the safety of my home.
But I was not to reach the door.
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