"Then we may yet be saved," said Mrs. Underwood.
16. The Mysterious Mr. Jackson
After installing Mrs. Underwood and Jherek Carnelian in his Bloomsbury rooms, Mr. Harris left, telling them that he would return as soon as possible and that they were to make themselves comfortable. The rooms, it seemed, did not really meet with Mrs. Underwood's approval, though Jherek found them extremely pleasant. There were numerous pictures of attractive young people upon the walls, there were thick velvet curtains at the windows, and deep-piled Turkish carpets upon the floors. There were porcelain figurines and a profusion of jade and amber ornaments. Looking through the books, Jherek found a great many elegant drawings of a kind he had not previously seen and he showed them to Mrs. Underwood, hoping that they might cheer her up, but instead she closed the books with a bang, refusing to explain why she would not look at the pictures. He was disappointed, for he had hoped that she would help the time pass by reading to him from the books. He found some other books, with yellow paper covers, which did not have pictures, and handed one of these to her.
"Perhaps you could read this?"
She glanced at it and sniffed. "It is French ," she said.
"You do not like it, either?"
"It is French." She looked through into the bedroom, at the wide bed with its lavish coverings. "This whole place reeks of the fin de siecle . Although Mr. Harris has helped us, I do not have to approve of his morals. I am in no doubt as to his purposes in keeping these rooms."
"Purposes? Does he not live in them?"
"Live? Oh, yes. To the full, it seems. But I suspect this is not the address at which he entertains his respectable friends." She crossed to a window and flung it up. "If he has any," she added. "I wonder how long we shall have to stay here."
"Until Mr. Harris has time to talk to a few people he knows and to take down our story," said Jherek, repeating what Mr. Harris had told them. "There is a great sense of safety about this apartment, Mrs. Underwood. Don't you feel it?"
"It has been designed to avoid ordinary public scrutiny," she said, and she sniffed again. Then she stared into one of the long gilt mirrors and tried, as she had tried before, to tidy her hair.
"Aren't you tired?" Jherek walked into the bedroom. "We could lie down. We could sleep."
"So we could," she said sharply. "I suspect that there is more lying down than standing up goes on here, as a rule. Art nouveau everywhere! Purple plumes and incense. This is where Mr. Harris entertains his actresses."
"Oh," said Jherek, having given up trying to understand her. He accepted, however, that there was something wrong with the rooms. He wished that Mrs. Underwood had been able to complete his moral education; if she had, he felt, he, too, might be able to enjoy sniffing and pursing his lips, for there was not much doubt that she was taking a certain pleasure in her activities: her cheeks were quite flushed, there was a light in her eyes. "Actresses?"
"So-called."
"There does not seem much in the way of food here," he told her, "but there are lots of bottles. Would you like something to drink?"
"No thank you, Mr. Carnelian. Unless there is some mineral water."
"You had better look for yourself, Mrs. Underwood. I don't know which is which."
Hesitantly, she entered the bedroom and surveyed the wide selection on a small sideboard set against the wall. "Mrs. Harris appears to have a distaste for Adam's Ale," she said. Her head lifted as there came a knocking upon the outer door. "Who could that be?"
"Mr. Harris returning earlier than expected?"
"Possibly. Open the door, Mr. Carnelian, but have a care. I do not entirely trust your journalist friend."
Jherek had some difficulty with the catch and the light knocking sounded again before he had the door open. When he saw who stood there, he grinned with relief and pleasure. "Oh, Jagged, dear Jagged! At last! It is you!"
The handsome man in the doorway removed his hat. "The name," he said, "is Jackson. I believe I saw you briefly last night at the Cafe Royale? You would be Mr. Carnelian."
"Come in, devious Jagged!"
With a slight bow to Mrs. Underwood, who stood now in the centre of the sitting room, Lord Jagged of Canaria entered. "You would be Mrs. Underwood? My name is Jackson. I work for the Saturday Review . Mr. Harris sent me to take some shorthand notes. He will join us later."
"You are the judge!" she exclaimed. "You are Lord Jagger, who sentenced Mr. Carnelian to death!"
The man who claimed to be Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows as, with a delicate movement, he divested himself of his top-coat and laid it, together with his hat, gloves and stick, upon the table. "Mr. Harris warned me that you would still be a little agitated. It is understandable, madam, in the circumstances. I assure you that I am neither of the two men so far mentioned. I am merely Jackson — a journalist. My job is to put some basic questions to you. Mr. Harris sent his regards and said that he is doing everything in his power to contact someone in high places — who must for the moment be nameless — in the hope that they will be able to assist you."
"You bear a remarkable resemblance to the Lord Chief Justice," she said.
"So I have been told. But I am neither as eminent nor as talented as that gentleman to my regret."
Jherek was laughing. "Listen to him! Isn't he perfect!"
"Mr. Carnelian," she said, "I think you are making a mistake. You will embarrass Mr. Jackson."
"No, no!" Mr. Jackson dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his slender hand. "We journalists are pretty hardy fellows, you know."
Jherek shrugged. "If you are not Jagged — and Jagged was not Jagger — then I must assume there are a number of Jaggeds, each playing different roles, perhaps throughout history…"
Mr. Jackson smiled and produced a notebook and a pencil. "That's the stuff," he said. "We seem to have a rival to your friend Mr. Wells, eh, Mrs. Underwood?"
"Mr. Wells is not my friend," she said.
"You know him, however, don't you — Mr. Jackson?" asked Jherek.
"Only slightly. We've had the odd conversation in the past. I've read a good many of his books, however. If your story is up to The Wonderful Visit and can be presented in the right way, then our circulation's assured!" He settled himself comfortably in a deep armchair. Jherek and Mrs. Underwood sat on the edge of the ottoman opposite him. "Now, I gather you're claiming to be the Mayfair Killer returned from the dead…"
"Not at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Underwood. "Mr. Carnelian would not kill anyone."
"Unfairly accused, then? Returned to vindicate the claim? Oh, this is splendid stuff!"
"I haven't been dead," said Jherek. "Not recently at any rate. And I don't understand about the rest."
"You are on the wrong tack, I fear, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Underwood primly.
"Where have you been, then, Mr. Carnelian?"
"In my own time — in Jagged's time — in the distant future, of course. I am a time traveller, just as Mrs. Underwood is." He touched her hand, but she removed it quickly. "That is how we met."
"You honestly believe that you have travelled through time, Mr. Carnelian?"
"Of course. Oh, Jagged, is there any point to this? You've already played this game once before!"
Mr. Jackson turned his attention to Mrs. Underwood. "And you say that you visited the future? That you met Mr. Carnelian there? You fell in love?"