The Time Traveller, Smith Page 11

Part 5

  A single cast-iron brazier sputtered aflame and lit, dimly, the throne-room of Beau Riche, inglorious King assumptive of Holloway and North London. Shadows retreated grudgingly to corners and flickered menacingly against the uneven walls and furnishings, conspiring amongst themselves a gloomy insurrection. Then, with a flare of kindling, the brazier seemed to surprise even itself with an unlikely final putsch, and soon even the far corners of the room were occupied by an illumination just on the right side of dull to title itself so.

  Given that my eyes had grown accustomed to the clean electrical lighting and ordered precision of the clock-room, it was rather disconcerting to find myself once again in less civilised surroundings. But as my eyesight adjusted to the dimness it became apparent just why Beau Riche should choose to light his chamber in such a fashion. The furnishings of the room seemed to have been gathered together, in a willy-nilly fashion, from the ruins and dumps of this devastated London, chosen not from any wont or design, but merely to fill the chamber with the wealth (and I use the word guardedly) of Beau Riche’s material possessions.

  Tattered drapes, their patterns and embroideries long lost to age and neglect, hung here and there against the uneven walls but failed to disguise the patches of damp and flaky plaster with which those walls were otherwise adorned. Napoleonic desks, their veneers peeling and dust scarred, were piled with the listing busts of restoration noteworthies and regency hobnobs, all missing an ear or the tip of a nose. Chests of (absent) drawers jostled for space with precarious stacks of chairs, many only three legged, their upholstery torn or gone completely. Several verdigrised candelabra, their arms twisted or bent and candle-less, rose from the odd pile of dented and tarnished plate. Venetian mirrors, ornately cracked; mildewed chaise-longues and settees; and, most incongruously, a number of large stuffed eagles, broken winged and largely featherless, and one unidentifiable stuffed mammal, like a small ugly bear, its fur patchy and festering. All this and more, mouldering furniture and decaying treasure, tottered in on the small space left before the throne, which itself appeared salvaged from the ruined seat of some long dead lord or bishop, its ancient wood split and showing considerable sign of once having provided kindling for some great conflagration.

  And on that throne sat the figure of Beau Riche himself, squirming uncomfortably in its hard seat.

  “There’s never enough cushions,” he grumbled to himself.

  Hardly the image of the fearsome warlord I had imagined, Beau Riche had more the air of the scatterbrained history teacher than of the Ghenghis Khan about him. And as his riches were not riche neither was his countenance beau. He wore an ermine trimmed robe, rather grubby at the edges and, I must say, more than too small for him, over a wrinkly charcoal coloured suit. His navy-blue necktie, hanging limp and skewiff, was knotted too tight for his thick neck, the collars of his crumpled once-white shirt wringed up around it.

  Beau Riche was a well built man, indeed, but in a toady kind of way. Just as his body was too large for his robe, he himself seemed too large for his body. His arms projected from his broad shoulders at clumsy angles like those of a corset-trussed spinster and his legs bowed from his torso like straws misguidedly supporting a barrel. His skin was the shade of pink that is normally accomplished only through a hot bath and a carbolic scrub, although it is doubtful he had ever taken advantage of such luxury. The hair on his oversized bonce was an unruly thatch of blond, the colour of soured cream; the same complexion apparent at his brows and lashes, conferring on his eyes a piggy little stare.

  I stood, still barefoot and filthy, with György Conel, his nurse and our one-eyed guard, before the dais of the throne, as Beau Riche fidgeted incessantly in his seat.

  Beau Riche’s attention was snatched away from thoughts of soft furnishings (or the lack thereof), not by our presence, which he had made a jolly good job of ignoring, but by the hooded and hand-bound figure of my protectoress K, as she was marched into the chamber by two surly looking ruffians. Now and then, a noise like the jingle of sleighbells would sound and my poor mistress would lurch forward more urgently.

  As the guards escorted K towards us the source of this jangling sound was revealed to be the figure who had, due to his tiny stature, remained concealed behind her. It was the King’s fool. This fool was a weasely little man dressed in red-patched motley, every inch the image of the joker from a pack of playing cards, from the bells on his toes right up to the bells that tipped his jester’s stick, which he had been absently prodding into the small of K’s back to encourage her into the room.

  Tethered as she was, and obviously in some discomfort, I still felt a pang of relief to see her alive.

  Beau Riche clapped his hands together and leaned forward eagerly. The fool sauntered unhurriedly from behind us to slouch by the throne of his master.

  Then the guards ripped the hood from K’s head.

  “Beau Riche,” she exclaimed matter-of-factly. “I knew I could smell your unmistakable stink in all this!”

  “Eau de Beau, eh, Lady K? Hah. Hah!”

  Beau Riche spoke like he had not only a plum in his mouth, but an orange and a banana also.

  “I like it, what? It rhymes! Remember that, Kendall, eh? EAU - DE - BEAU. Hah! Got it?”

  This last to his bored looking fool. The little man shook his bell-ended stick rather noncommittally.

  “O-di-bo, o-di-bo,” he parroted back half-heartedly in his reedy little voice.

  Leaning to one side of his throne, Beau Riche let loose with an almighty fart. He struggled, unsuccessfully, to suppress a fit of giggles. Wiping his eyes and sweeping the blond hair from his sweat-specked forehead, he composed himself somewhat before slipping awkwardly from his throne and waddling toward us.

  “You must be Mister Smith, hah!” He poked a fat finger at my chest.

  “Your Majesty,” I bowed. K cast a sideways glance at me and uttered a disappointed tut.

  “Hah! Quite right. Yes. Of course you are acquainted with my lieutenant, ‘Gay’ Gordon, eh?”

  He indicated the gruff Scot at our side. Gay Gordon inclined his head menacingly and scowled at me. For the life of me I could not see the slightest thing gay about him!

  “And, of course, you know these others, blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. What?”

  With a huffed snigger, and seemingly losing all interest in me, Beau Riche returned to perch restlessly on the edge of his throne. He still tittered to himself occasionally as he fidgeted on the hard edge of the chair, mumbling under his breath like a bashful schoolboy.

  All of a sudden, as if the gong of some intention had sounded in his head, he looked up.

  “Bring me the old man,” he ordered.

  With a pat of her posterior, Gay Gordon encouraged the gangly ginger girl to wheel Conel forward.

  “Mr Conel, I really do hope the answer is not ‘neg’, eh?”

  “Neg,” György Conel flinched. “Eegen! I mean yes! All is prepared. It is ready.”

  “Good, what? Good. Now, take him away and bring me the Welsh girl.”

  He indicated Conel’s nurse.

  Gordon grabbed the girl and urged her, stiffly, from behind Conel’s wheeled chair. He cast her down viciously at the foot of the throne.

  Beau Riche leaned forward and, squeezing a pudgy hand around the girl’s cheeks, pulled her to her knees.

  “Ah, such a lovely singing voice, eh, Kendall?”

  “O-di-bo, La-di-da,” the fool chanted, with a vague, whiney sigh.

  “Will you sing for us now, my dear? It would be such a pleasant way to welcome our new guests. You know how much it pleased me, eh? Go on sing. Sing-oh. Sing-di. Sing-bo! Sing-do. Sing-re. Sing-mi!”

  Wide eyed and shaking, the girl hesitantly opened her mouth. But rather than sweet notes and melodious refrains, she could intone no more than a lamentable moan punctuated with the gurgles of ever more urgent sobs.

  “Hah. Hah! Hah. Hah!” Beau Riche b
ellowed.

  The poor girl’s open, quivering mouth revealed only the torn and swollen stump from which her vocal instrument had been so viciously ripped! The barbarian had had her tongue! Her jaw continued to open and close, open and close tremulously in a teary, mime before, finally overcome, she collapsed to the floor, a heaving mess of frizzy hair and keening sobs.

  The little fool tinkled his bells indifferently as Beau Riche roared with wicked laughter and the sobs of the poor mute girl gradually subsided into silent shudders.

  The entrance of a newcomer finally quieted the monster.

  “Ah, yes, er, quite,” he said, clearing his throat. “Now behave!”

  And he wagged a cautionary finger, quite at whom I do not know, before introducing the newcomer.

  “It is my pleasure to introduce to you His Excellency, Ben Landon, Envoy of the Protestant-Moslem Republic of Texas.”

  Ben Landon was a wiry Arab with a wispy beard, greying at the sides, and dark, interrogative eyes. On his head a white turban was topped by an equally brilliant Boss-of-the-Plains hat, extending his already tall form by almost a foot. The broad brim of the hat was ringed with a pale blue band, pinned, at its front, with the silver and gold star and crescent insignia of the Texian Republic, which glinted even in the low light. He wore an immaculate linen suit, appropriately the colour of desert sand. I could not help noticing that, despite his otherwise dapper appearance, he chose not to wear a neck-tie, the collar of his crisply white shirt hanging unbuttoned.

  “Your Excellency,” Beau Riche continued, “this is Mr Smith, assistant to Conel the Clockworker, here. And I believe you’ve already had some, er, dealings with this young lady, eh?”

  Landon’s drawly voice slipped like gritty treacle from his thick lips, the elongated vowels punctuated with short, hard consonants. Maybe it was just his accent, to which I was unaccustomed, but all his words seemed tinged with a half-amused insincerity.

  “Maister Smith,” he smirked. “Mah’lady Kam-El-Ford.”

  Removing his hat by its brim and holding it against his chest by the crown, he bowed very low, given his stature.

  K's eyes narrowed.

  "Just K will do, Osamma."

  Now it was the Texian who narrowed his eyes. His second bow was little more than an inclination of the head.

  “As ya’ wi-ell, ma’am,” he acquiesced.

  “Envoy Landon has an especial favour to ask of you two chaps,” Beau Riche broke in, cheerfully.

  “As you know, Beau, I’m always happy to bestow favours where I can,” K replied, in an overly accommodating manner. “Perhaps His Excellency has a kitten he needs throttling? Or maybe a child he’d like me to maim? No bother at all, I assure you.”

  “Well, rather, what, no. Eh?”

  Beau Riche’s face had turned an even more unlikely shade of pink. He huffed and ran his podgy fingers through his messy hair, fidgeting all the more in his throne.

  Nonplussed, the Texian continued.

  “Mah pah-lot has been overcome wi’ the flux, Muzz K. Doo no doubt to th’ Allah-forsaken slop that passes fo’ cuisine in this dull land.

  “Y’all see, his ‘onor Beau Riche here was fixin’ me a dee-mo-stration of Maister Conel’s dee-vice, and while Maister Smith here’s kindly offered t’ fulfil th’ doo-ties o’ th’ indisposed ol’ man,” (I had done no such thing!) “it seems we’re needy of a volunteer to pah-lot the gyro-plane to th’, er, designated testin’ area. Y’ar familiar wi’ similar vee-hicles, Ah do believe?”

  “Indeed. And if I choose not to bestow this favour?”

  “We-ell, all actions have their con-see-quences, Muzz K. Th’ designated testin’ area is sow-uth of the river here in London. Y’ar no doubt familiar. Nottin’ but an inhospitable wasteland, no population t’ speak of, ‘cept fo’ th’ perverse and th’ iniquitous. If Ah’m disappointed in fixin’ mah dee-mo-stration today, we-ell, Ah do declare, Ah may be inclined to switch mah attention to a, shall we say, more interessin’ locale.”

  Beau riche had regained his composure.

  “You’ll be chaperoned, so to speak, of course. Gordon will accompany you, won’t you, you old bugger, eh? As a - what shall we call him…? A special advisor. Yes. Ha!”

  The one-eyed Scot stepped forward, a scowl of appreciation on his blotchy face, to stand between K and me. I believe K was about to protest before Gordon clutched the crook of her arm in his muscular paw.

  “Ouch,” was the only protest K had opportunity to word.

  “Shhh, now, Cousin K,” the surly Scot mumbled. “Or I may ha’ some extra special advice for ye….”

  “No time to waste, eh?” beamed Beau Riche, gleefully clapping his hands together. “I’m sure you’re both eager to make your final preparations, what?”

  * * *