#3 Penny Dreadful
The Life and
Crimes of Lockhart and Doppler
An Illustrated journal
of amusement, adventure and instruction
The German Affair Part One
I raced towards the edge of the parapet, shouted demands,
exclamations and the occasional warning shot gave my feet the extra impetus
needed. I came to a slewing halt, craned to see over the edge and quickly took
the measure of the oncoming pursuers two of whom were levelling rifles.
“You are under arrest fraulein!” screamed a sweaty, purple
blotched face.
An explosion of masonry beside me made my mind up. I pulled
down my goggles, gave a small bow then leapt over the side.
The speeding air
robbed me of my breath momentarily, the goggles pressed against my skin, my
jacket flapped, my legs lifted. I was tipping upside-down, but the target was
imminent.
I smashed into the silk with some astonishing force, it is
quite amazing how hard fabric can be when filled with air. The top of the
balloon bowed and quivered. For a short moment I was enveloped in fabric and
rope then released like a seed popping free of its pod, I rose in the air like
a spider on the wind then returned to the space where the balloon had been and
scrabbled frantically for the webbing down its side. My fingers caught hold, my
shoulder yanked painfully. It had all happened in a matter of seconds. I arched
my neck to see the schloss parapet lined with figures, a guard, aiming, was
roughly shoved, making the shot fly awry, after all, they couldn’t go shooting
private air balloons out of the sky – no matter who was hitching a ride.
Hooking my feet into the rope webbing lower down, I waved a cheery ‘so long
suckers’ and proceeded downwards.
I did not however account for who owned this vessel I was
escaping on. Clinging tightly, I made my way past the mouth onto the upright
and into the basket.
“Guten tag…” I began, brushing myself down, then found myself
staring into the wrong end of a pistol. “Ah.”
“You are under
arrest, Ms Lockhart.”
Wondering what in Gods’ names I was thinking and asking
myself how did I get in this pickle and how was I going to extrapolate myself
legally (or perhaps not legally), I leapt from the basket…
Earlier that month.
I was at a party held by Lord and Lady Wendover for various
dignitaries of the Germanic States and Kingdoms; Dukes, Counts, minor Princes
and representatives of Bavaria, Saxony, Hessen-Kassel and so on. Not normally
the sort of gathering I would attend, but I was the guest of Lady Celia Fox, an
occasional employer and somewhat friend who did have these connections and it
was something I needed to do if I was to get the authorisation required to fly
over or travel through the Germanic and Austrian Kingdoms and Principalities to
Bohemia. There was some political shenanigans afoot at the moment, something
about Unification, borders were closed or having tolls put on them. It simply
got in the way of where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do. And so Lady C
had got me through the door, it was up to me to get the papers.
There was a general din of chatter and laughter, deep
conversation and tinkling of glassware. I had spoken to a number of persons in
smart attire, military uniform and the usual executive attire, getting nowhere
when I was directed to a slight, officious looking individual with black hair
slicked across his forehead and a sash of office brightening an otherwise dour
ensemble. Herr Kutz was one of those self-important, bigoted little jobsworths.
He enjoyed the power of denying. I smiled
politely through clenched jaw whilst envisioning him naked, tied to the
underside of the Professor Selwyn as we flew low over a thorny forest.
“…and so Fraulein Lockhart, it is with deepest regret that I
must turn down your application. And,” he paused for effect, “as
Generalinspekeur, (he pronounced his G hard as in goolie) there is no-one
higher than myself to grant you the authority, my apologies.” He clicked his
heels smartly, bowed and departed. I resisted the urge to kick his skinny
backside.
Music flowed from the ballroom yonder, I made my way through
the chattering masses, smiling occasional acknowledgement until I reached the
huge, open double doorway.
“May I offer you a fresh glass ma’am?” came the mechanical
voice of the automated flunky as it proffered a silver platter replete with
tall stemmed champagne glasses. I took two, immediately downed the first and
carried the remainder with me into the noise-some, sweaty masses. Skirting the
edge of the dance floor I spotted Lady Celia twirling with evident joy, with an
elderly gent bent almost double with the weight of platinum, gold, silver and
tin on his chest. A possible future husband –albeit briefly- for the two times
widow. When the polonaise ended she gently drew the ancient with her to where I
stood and introduced Field Marshall Marmaduke M. Pettiford. OBE. Informed of my
failure to acquire travel and digging authorisation, Lady Celia suggested I
take a turn around the floor with the gent over there with the rigid
expression. From the relatively small principality of Saxe-Gotha, Graf Frederik
was immensely wealthy and known to patronise enterprising persons who impressed
him. I prepared to impress.
Graf Frederik von Saxe-Coburg clicked his heels smartly,
inclined his head ever so slightly whilst his lips brushed the back of my hand
ever so briefly. He looked like he had had his suit ironed with him inside.
“Fraulein.”
“Count.”
“Would you care to dance?” His English was almost perfect,
clipped with a hint of Prussian or Bavarian, unlike the guttural accents of
Herr Kutz. Lady C smiled as I was led off, she winked cheekily. The Count
danced very well, but without feeling, formal like his speech. His hand rested
on my waist rather than held it, my hand in his cool one felt like it was
resting on one of those fake ones for soldiers who had theirs blown off in the
wars. I had to double check – no, it was real. We chatted in a limited way
about our lives, mine being that of an ‘extricater of valuables’ in the employ
of the Royal Geographic Society, and Lady Celia on occasion, and his being that
of an inordinately wealthy, privileged stuffed shirt. When we separated and he
had bid farewell with an annoying click of his highly polished, knee length
leather boots, I sought out Lady Celia.
“He’s married.” I declared.
“So?” Lady Celia smiled.
“Happily!” I stated.
“Well? You’ve never let it stop you before.”
She did have a point.
To be continued…
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