Read Online Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea by Kage Baker, Kathleen Bartholomew - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kage Baker, Kathleen Bartholomew
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a moment, she asked incredulously, “Is that thing smoking ? It is!”
“Yes, I thought so. Either they have solved the problem of submarine venting,” said Lady Beatrice, “or that is a cannon.”
The print was passed round with the magnifying glass, and the consensus was that it was, indeed, venting steam rather than the smoke of a spent charge. In verification, the next two prints in the series showed no impact in the water, which was as smooth ahead of the wake as behind it.
But Mrs. Otley, who had been perusing the print of the hawk proffered for her amusement by Herbertina, had spied something else in the background. On the cliffs beyond the cottages, below the imposing pile of Mr. Pickett’s present domicile, was a figure. It was also watching the sea, and under examination by the magnifying glass appeared to be employing a telescope for the purpose. When Mrs. Corvey’s lenses were brought to bear on the image, it was unmistakeably Mr. Pickett himself, watching the sea caves below the cottages and Herbertina’s redoubt.
“I don’t know what’s being done, nor how he’s doing it,” said Mrs. Corvey in grim triumph, “but he’s the bugger who’s doing whatever it is! All right, the Gentlemen have put this off too long. I’m done with sending coy little love notes, it’s time to break out the Aetheric Transmitter. I want to talk to someone about this, and I want to do it tonight!”
Dora and Maude trotted off at once to bring out Mrs. Corvey’s sewing basket, and to reassemble its components into a compact Aetheric Transmitter; Miss Rendlesham obligingly ran the fine wire antenna out the window by which she had been sitting. Lady Beatrice meanwhile fetched out Mrs. Corvey’s instruction manual and code books, and set about tuning the device to the frequency required by the date and hour for successful transmission. So accustomed were the Ladies to this exercise (by dint of regular drills with the equipment) that within a quarter hour Mrs. Corvey was determinedly demanding parlay with the Officer of the Day below Redking’s Club in London, nearly 200 miles away.
Upon establishing bona fides to the disembodied male voice’s satisfaction (“Who else does he think is calling out of the aether, I’d like to know?” muttered Mrs. Corvey sotto voce to the ladies seated expectantly round the table) it was at last determined that there was, essentially, no one of rank available for a serious consultation with field agents—let alone the holidaying Ladies of Nell Gwynne’s.
“Then fetch Mr. Felmouth, young man,” snapped Mrs. Corvey.
“Mr. Felmouth is the Head of Fabrication, ma’am,” said the voice. It sounded somewhat scandalized.
“I know that, boy! You’ll find him in the Artificer’s Hall, I shouldn’t wonder. The man’s there all hours of the night and day.” Mrs. Corvey pointed a finger at the Aetheric Transmitter, as if the man at the other end of the circuit were not as blind—or blinder—than she herself. “Something mighty odd is swanning round the coast off Torbay, and if all the Gentleman are off to Bath for the waters or whatever, then I’ll have the Chief Fabricator to account. Put down that bun and go fetch him, now.”
There was a most speaking silence, before the voice—now sounding positively unnerved—muttered “Yes’m,” and the carrier wave was left to hum by itself.
“How did you guess he was eating a bun ?” asked Maude, grinning.
“It’s tea time,” said Mrs. Corvey shortly.
“And if all the chiefs are off and out,” commented Herbertina, “that boy was bound to have a cup or a pint or a bun to hand. Probably all three. Well done, Mrs. C.”
Guilt or panic must have lent wings to the young operator’s heels, because it was only a few minutes before Mr. Felmouth’s familiar tones replaced the soft noise of the somnolent Transmitter.
“Felmouth here. How are you, Mrs. Corvey?” came his amused voice. “Young Harvey here is convinced
“Yes, I thought so. Either they have solved the problem of submarine venting,” said Lady Beatrice, “or that is a cannon.”
The print was passed round with the magnifying glass, and the consensus was that it was, indeed, venting steam rather than the smoke of a spent charge. In verification, the next two prints in the series showed no impact in the water, which was as smooth ahead of the wake as behind it.
But Mrs. Otley, who had been perusing the print of the hawk proffered for her amusement by Herbertina, had spied something else in the background. On the cliffs beyond the cottages, below the imposing pile of Mr. Pickett’s present domicile, was a figure. It was also watching the sea, and under examination by the magnifying glass appeared to be employing a telescope for the purpose. When Mrs. Corvey’s lenses were brought to bear on the image, it was unmistakeably Mr. Pickett himself, watching the sea caves below the cottages and Herbertina’s redoubt.
“I don’t know what’s being done, nor how he’s doing it,” said Mrs. Corvey in grim triumph, “but he’s the bugger who’s doing whatever it is! All right, the Gentlemen have put this off too long. I’m done with sending coy little love notes, it’s time to break out the Aetheric Transmitter. I want to talk to someone about this, and I want to do it tonight!”
Dora and Maude trotted off at once to bring out Mrs. Corvey’s sewing basket, and to reassemble its components into a compact Aetheric Transmitter; Miss Rendlesham obligingly ran the fine wire antenna out the window by which she had been sitting. Lady Beatrice meanwhile fetched out Mrs. Corvey’s instruction manual and code books, and set about tuning the device to the frequency required by the date and hour for successful transmission. So accustomed were the Ladies to this exercise (by dint of regular drills with the equipment) that within a quarter hour Mrs. Corvey was determinedly demanding parlay with the Officer of the Day below Redking’s Club in London, nearly 200 miles away.
Upon establishing bona fides to the disembodied male voice’s satisfaction (“Who else does he think is calling out of the aether, I’d like to know?” muttered Mrs. Corvey sotto voce to the ladies seated expectantly round the table) it was at last determined that there was, essentially, no one of rank available for a serious consultation with field agents—let alone the holidaying Ladies of Nell Gwynne’s.
“Then fetch Mr. Felmouth, young man,” snapped Mrs. Corvey.
“Mr. Felmouth is the Head of Fabrication, ma’am,” said the voice. It sounded somewhat scandalized.
“I know that, boy! You’ll find him in the Artificer’s Hall, I shouldn’t wonder. The man’s there all hours of the night and day.” Mrs. Corvey pointed a finger at the Aetheric Transmitter, as if the man at the other end of the circuit were not as blind—or blinder—than she herself. “Something mighty odd is swanning round the coast off Torbay, and if all the Gentleman are off to Bath for the waters or whatever, then I’ll have the Chief Fabricator to account. Put down that bun and go fetch him, now.”
There was a most speaking silence, before the voice—now sounding positively unnerved—muttered “Yes’m,” and the carrier wave was left to hum by itself.
“How did you guess he was eating a bun ?” asked Maude, grinning.
“It’s tea time,” said Mrs. Corvey shortly.
“And if all the chiefs are off and out,” commented Herbertina, “that boy was bound to have a cup or a pint or a bun to hand. Probably all three. Well done, Mrs. C.”
Guilt or panic must have lent wings to the young operator’s heels, because it was only a few minutes before Mr. Felmouth’s familiar tones replaced the soft noise of the somnolent Transmitter.
“Felmouth here. How are you, Mrs. Corvey?” came his amused voice. “Young Harvey here is convinced
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