forty-five minutes with this creature. Should she pull the bell cord, then, and declare herself done early? Would such behavior be suspicious?
Ellie opened the door and glanced down the hallway. No sign of anyone, mechanical or otherwise. If she could only get her hands on those drawings of the models—that would be a great coup, and a boon to circulation, if reproduced in the paper. Perhaps she could find an unattended sheaf of the materials and slip them into her pocket.
If nothing else, she could creep across the hall and get a look at another model. She tiptoed to the door across the way, number five, and listened at the keyhole. There was the faint sound of grunting and squeaking springs, and she hurriedly moved away. Door number seven was quite silent, however, and when she touched the doorknob, it turned. Did she dare? If caught, she could always claim she’d stepped out for a moment, gotten confused, and returned to the wrong room. Her article would benefit from descriptions of more than one of the amorous devices.
With a last glance down the hall, she pushed open the door, and stepped through.
Inside, she discovered a man wearing a set of complexly-lensed goggles, holding a long screwdriver, and poking around in the exposed mechanical guts of the naked creature on the bed.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Ellie said—squeaked, really. Clearing her throat and roughening her voice, she said, “Wrong room, my mistake, I…”
She stared. She knew this man. Not personally. But he had a very recognizable face.
He pushed the goggles up to his forehead. The eyes that looked at her were bright and curious, but not particularly kind. “The door should have been locked, the madam must not have—” He stopped speaking and cocked his head. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I see you recognize me.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir—”
Sir Bertram Oswald, noted scientist, leading expert on pneumatic alchemy, famed experimentalist, head of the Royal Alchemical Society, and close confidant (and rumored lover) of Queen Victoria, sighed and reached over to pull the bell rope dangling by the bed. “I do hope you aren’t anyone terribly important,” he said, almost apologetically.
Interviews with
Horrible Men
P imm took a hansom cab as close to the address as he could. None of the electric omnibuses serviced this route, and horses generally refused to get closer than seven hundred yards or so from the walls that enclosed the remnants of Whitechapel (and a small bite of Mile End), so he had to walk the last mile or so. He strolled along the largely deserted street, past shuttered shops and sagging warehouses, aware of the eyes watching him from alleyways and empty windows, and from behind the safety of rubbish heaps. He kept to the center of the street, and frequently paused to glance behind him, to make sure no one was attempting to take him by surprise. He was dressed entirely too well for this vicinity, and though daylight robbery was rare even in this wretched part of London, twilight was near, and it was best to be vigilant. He was more worried about the walk back, when it would surely be full dark. The West End and parts of central London had electric lights now, but streets in the East End were still lit only by gas lamps, and only intermittently by those.
Pimm grasped his walking stick—black, heavy, four feet long, topped with a silver ball, and specially modified by Freddy to serve as something more useful than a mere bludgeon—and strode along, doing his best to look confident and untouchable. Such a pose would have been easier if he hadn’t tossed back quite so many drinks before coming this way. He’d only intended to have a single drink to fortify himself around teatime, but one drink had turned into two and then into four, as sometimes happened. He was not drunk —it took a certain concentrated effort over the best part of an evening for him to get drunk, at this point—but his reflexes were
Ellie opened the door and glanced down the hallway. No sign of anyone, mechanical or otherwise. If she could only get her hands on those drawings of the models—that would be a great coup, and a boon to circulation, if reproduced in the paper. Perhaps she could find an unattended sheaf of the materials and slip them into her pocket.
If nothing else, she could creep across the hall and get a look at another model. She tiptoed to the door across the way, number five, and listened at the keyhole. There was the faint sound of grunting and squeaking springs, and she hurriedly moved away. Door number seven was quite silent, however, and when she touched the doorknob, it turned. Did she dare? If caught, she could always claim she’d stepped out for a moment, gotten confused, and returned to the wrong room. Her article would benefit from descriptions of more than one of the amorous devices.
With a last glance down the hall, she pushed open the door, and stepped through.
Inside, she discovered a man wearing a set of complexly-lensed goggles, holding a long screwdriver, and poking around in the exposed mechanical guts of the naked creature on the bed.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Ellie said—squeaked, really. Clearing her throat and roughening her voice, she said, “Wrong room, my mistake, I…”
She stared. She knew this man. Not personally. But he had a very recognizable face.
He pushed the goggles up to his forehead. The eyes that looked at her were bright and curious, but not particularly kind. “The door should have been locked, the madam must not have—” He stopped speaking and cocked his head. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I see you recognize me.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean, sir—”
Sir Bertram Oswald, noted scientist, leading expert on pneumatic alchemy, famed experimentalist, head of the Royal Alchemical Society, and close confidant (and rumored lover) of Queen Victoria, sighed and reached over to pull the bell rope dangling by the bed. “I do hope you aren’t anyone terribly important,” he said, almost apologetically.
Interviews with
Horrible Men
P imm took a hansom cab as close to the address as he could. None of the electric omnibuses serviced this route, and horses generally refused to get closer than seven hundred yards or so from the walls that enclosed the remnants of Whitechapel (and a small bite of Mile End), so he had to walk the last mile or so. He strolled along the largely deserted street, past shuttered shops and sagging warehouses, aware of the eyes watching him from alleyways and empty windows, and from behind the safety of rubbish heaps. He kept to the center of the street, and frequently paused to glance behind him, to make sure no one was attempting to take him by surprise. He was dressed entirely too well for this vicinity, and though daylight robbery was rare even in this wretched part of London, twilight was near, and it was best to be vigilant. He was more worried about the walk back, when it would surely be full dark. The West End and parts of central London had electric lights now, but streets in the East End were still lit only by gas lamps, and only intermittently by those.
Pimm grasped his walking stick—black, heavy, four feet long, topped with a silver ball, and specially modified by Freddy to serve as something more useful than a mere bludgeon—and strode along, doing his best to look confident and untouchable. Such a pose would have been easier if he hadn’t tossed back quite so many drinks before coming this way. He’d only intended to have a single drink to fortify himself around teatime, but one drink had turned into two and then into four, as sometimes happened. He was not drunk —it took a certain concentrated effort over the best part of an evening for him to get drunk, at this point—but his reflexes were
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