Yet the heavy paper and embossed coat of arms commanded some respect. As did his and Blakeney’s mutual membership of White’s Club. Sir Percy’s ear had been bent on the subject several times when he sought sanctuary there from the silly world and refuge in a stiff brandy. ‘Put it in writing, dear boy’ he’d said, hoping to hear no more. However, evidently the noble Lord Lovelace was so unworldly as to mistake fend-offs for promises.
Blakeney rescued the letter and waved it before Talleyrand.
‘No need to read it,’ he said, helpfully. ‘I can tell you the gist. He married a flighty piece, Lord Byron’s daughter in fact: not that you’ll have heard of him…’
The lip Talleyrand had bitten was now pursed. To be presumed uncultured by some Saxon oaf…!
‘Anyhow,’ Blakeney sailed on, ‘what’s bred in the bone comes out in the meat, and she’s acted true to form. Dabbled with science, pestered busy men, slept with Lazarans; that sort of thing. Got herself killed by one in fact. The Home Office denied permission for revival but someone did it anyway. Now, she’s on the rampage, dead as a doornail and mad as a hatter: robbing banks, shooting police and generally disgracing the Family name. Plus she’s acquired an accomplice: we have an artist’s impression available from one of the outrages. There’s been so many I can’t recall which…’
In trying to recall, Sir Percy was troubled. He’d spared all of three seconds to quiz the file that morning and the drawing had shared that brief scan. Now a bat shriek of recognition stirred. Was it mere imagination or had that face been vaguely familiar? Trouble was, Sir Percy had so many cases on the go that all but crucial facts were purged from memory lest his head explode.
Now, hours later, he could spare only the briefest mental chase: Talleyrand was waiting expectantly and there remained ample work to do. No: no good: the will o’ the wisp recollection was let go—if it ever existed.
‘Well, the long and the short of it is milord wants us to put men on the case, above and beyond the Police: get it sorted quick. And there’s a jest for you: I get the impression she had men aplenty on her in life. Now, in death, if you please, her husband wants us to put more on!’
Talleyrand pretended to restrain his ribs.
‘Ha ha! Oh, you are too droll, Sir Percy.’
‘Am I? Well, be that as it may, I want to oblige the chap: it’s embarrassing for him. He never explicitly said so but I reckon it’s best if she just… disappears. Back to Heaven—or Hell more likely—which she never should have left. Romney Marsh has loads of room left in it, if y’ take me meaning…’
Talleyrand did. He gathered that many of the English State’s enemies (or mistakes) resided there on a permanent basis, slowly turning into leathery peat-men to amaze future generations.
Sir Percy realised he’d sounded a bit ruthless, maybe even French!
‘There’s laws been broken,’ he expanded. ‘A life lost; serenity of the Realm disturbed and all that, so the legal aspect’s covered. Plus illegal revival’s a capital offence. But I don’t have staff to spare. Have you got any slack? Could you cover it?
The Prince smiled and inclined his head. It was so… luxurious to be able, on occasion, speak the truth.
‘My dear Blakeney,’ he said, ‘consider it done.’
Which, in fact, it was.
WANTED! WANTED! WANTED!
BY HIS MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY’S GOVERNMENT
REWARD! REWARD! REWARD!
THE SUM OF £5,000 ENGLISH COIN IS OFFERED FOR INTELLIGENCE LEADING TO THE CAPTURE, ALIVE FOR PREFERENCE, OF A
SWITZER
GOING BY SUNDRY NAMES
BUT OFTTIMES PURPORTING (FALSELY SO)
TO BE OF THE FAMILY
FRANKENSTEIN
OF INFAMOUS RENOWN
SAID SWITZER BEING:
ITEM—6 FOOT TALL. SOLDIERLY BEARING
ITEM—IN HIS FOURTH DECADE
ITEM—FAIR HAIRED, COMELY & BLUE-EYED
ITEM—NEATLY MOUSTACHIOED (PERHAPS)
ITEM—WITH ACCENTED ENGLISH
ITEM—BUT ALSO FRENCH & GERMAN
ITEM—LIKELY IN GENTLEMEN’S ATTIRE
ITEM—OF FOREIGN & VOLATILE PERSUASION
ALL REPORTS & APPLICATIONS TO BE MADE TO THE MOST IMMEDIATE CONSTABLE, AGENT OF THE LAW OR OFFICER OF THE MILITARY ADMINISTRATION WITHIN THE BOUNDS OF UNITED ENGLAND OR ITS EMPIRE AND PROTECTORATES.
GOD SAVE THE KING!
Mere shutting of the stable door after the horse was fled. A face and job-saving gesture. By the time the posters were printed the ‘Switzer’ was well beyond England’s grasp.
And that was because, alas, the disparate bits only clicked when it was too late. Somewhen in the early hours when Sir Percy was in fitful sleep, some of his synapses got together and conspired behind his back (or back-brain). Whether it be to help or hinder isn’t clear but whatever the motive they agreed to pool electric charges to zap open a disused cupboard in his memory.
Its door swung wide and within stood an image of Julius Frankenstein. That bally foreigner from the Hecatomb, the one nearing the end of his usefulness. Allegedly Europe’s foremost Revivalist but actually a bit of a dud, Lazaran research wise. Yet still someone to be kept at all costs from the service of the Enemy.
Whatever comprised Sir Percy’s consciousness when he was unconscious matched all this to various Talleyrand-meeting memories. Those brain cells were much more frequented and their door hinges far less creaky. One contained the police artist’s impression.
Eureka! The two recollections met, matched and mated. Sleeping Sir Percy identified dead, mad, embarrassing Lady Lovelace’s accomplice in crime. An outlaw, murderer, bank-robber and general rapscallion Johnny-foreigner!. On the loose and out of control!
Worries about a weak heart and his desperate need for sleep were sternly overruled. Adrenaline production sufficient to wake all systems was authorised.
Britain’s senior spy jack-knifed up in bed as septuagenarians really shouldn’t, hurling off the covers and howling. It was just as well Lady Blakeney was stone deaf and a sound sleeper. He instinctively reached for the pistol under his pillow before returning reason informed him that wouldn’t help much. A comfort maybe, but no help…
The same faculty also blessed or cursed him with total recollection.
‘Bugger!’ said Sir Percy. ‘Bugger!’
It was just as well Lady Blakeney was comatose. There were some practices her sheltered life had spared her awareness of. Sir Percy would rather not have to explain at this late stage of life and marriage, or at this ungodly hour. It was the only mercy in the whole damn business.
He could take the necessary steps of course, but it was embarrassing. He blamed old age and a crippling workload, but that still didn’t fully excuse. And as for his masters and many enemies, they wouldn’t excuse at all.
Heads must roll of course, but preferably deputy-heads. Certainly, they mustn’t include Sir Percy’s. His country needed him. Therefore, best to keep it quiet, as far as you could in the context of a nation-wide man-hunt.
The only problem was whether to tell Talleyrand or not. The man was his deputy after all, with a proven track record of pulling off minor miracles. Perhaps if Sir Percy made a clean breast of it, the Prince would be nothing but silky sympathy, composing elaborate explanations that hadn’t even occurred to the offender.