Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘Gentlemen,’ says the one who is not the butler, ‘welcome to my club.’ He has a jitteriness of voice and manner which give the impression that he is trapped in a zoetrope. He rubs his hands together continually and touches his face more than is necessary.

‘Not what I’d call a warm welcome,’ remarks Lancaster. ‘And hardly sporting. Who are you and what the deuce do you think you’re doing?’

‘I apologize for the precautions, but these are troublous times. My name is Asquith, and I am the president of the Hefestaeum Club.’

I give a start. I have read of Asquith, who in point of fact is Lord Asquith, seventeenth Baron of Gullsworth, and whose mind and industry are responsible for many of the most ingenious of modern inventions. I had expected to like him more than I do.

‘Now,’ he continues, ‘who sent you? Are you from the Admiralty, or are you Intelligence?’

Lancaster and I look perplexedly at one another.

‘We weren’t sent by anyone,’ I say.

‘You will forgive me,’ says Asquith, scratching at his nose compulsively, ‘but I find that difficult to believe. You have in the middle of the night attempted to gain entrance to my club with a woman, and, most damningly, you have refused to answer Benton’s riddles.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ demands Lancaster.

‘The riddles, as you doubtless know already, were designed by Lane, whose understanding of psychology is acute. He crafted three perfect questions, the answers to which allow Benton to tell beyond a shadow of a doubt whether a stranger’s intentions are good or ill. Yet you refused to answer them. What other conclusion can we draw but that you are spies?’

‘But we aren’t spies!’ I say.

‘We’re looking for a chap named Kensington,’ adds Lancaster — which, it turns out, was not the correct thing to say. Asquith’s face becomes bleak.

‘You have sealed your fate, gentlemen,’ he says, and turns to leave.

‘What?’ I cry. ‘Where are you going? How did that seal our fate? We’re acquaintances of his!’

‘You are the third government delegation to try to apprehend him in the last seven hours,’ Asquith says, his back still to us. ‘The first two were turned away at the door, having incorrectly answered the riddles. They were warned that another attempt would be seen as a declaration of war. Benton, stay here. If they try to speak, you may beat them. I will alert Kensington that the club is no longer safe for him.’

He turns the corner and disappears from view. Benton eyes us with malevolence. ‘Well, this is a pickle, by Christ,’ says Lancaster.

‘No speaking,’ croaks Benton. He picks up a broom handle which was leaning against a wall and brandishes it threateningly. I imagine him attempting to beat Lancaster. It makes me smile to myself.

‘Now see here, old chap,’ begins Lancaster, but Benton sticks the handle through the bars and delivers me a smart rap on the arm.

‘Ow! You’re supposed to hit him !’ I say indignantly.

‘He is large,’ says Benton, and hits me again. Lancaster laughs loudly, which results in two more bruises upon my person.

‘Shut up, Lancaster,’ I say, as Benton lands another blow.

Thereafter we sit in silence, waiting for I know not what. I try to be indignant, but there is a mischievous voice in the back of my head which suggests I’m having rather a good time.

After several hours* we hear the sound of footsteps, and my heart leaps as Will Kensington comes into view. In the eerie blue light he looks even younger than I had remembered.

As soon as he sees me, he rushes to the gate and exclaims, ‘Mr Savage! Oh sir, I am so sorry! I had no notion it was you. Benton! The keys, quickly! Come, man!’

The butler blinks. ‘But sir,’ he says, ‘Lord Asquith and I are in agreement that these men are spies of the most insidious sort.’

‘They aren’t spies, Benton! This is Mr Savage who is an old friend, and I don’t know his companion, but he doubtless is every bit as admirable.’

‘If you don’t know him,’ says Benton tenaciously, ‘how do you know he’s not a spy?’

‘Damn it, man, open the cell!’

The butler stares at Kensington for several long moments, and seems on the edge of refusing — but at last he sighs, saunters to the gate, and begins trying various keys in the lock. Kensington seems paralysed. I believe he would like to thoroughly dress down Benton, but his excellent good nature forbids it.

For mine own part, I am immensely cheered to see the young Northerner. My mind, which was preparing itself for a lengthy stay in the dungeon — eighteen months! and with only Lancaster for company! — is very much eased.

‘Lancaster,’ I say, ‘this is Will Kensington, the inventor and my — friend. The one we came here to see. Kensington, this is Ashley Lancaster.’

‘But you’re a baby, by Christ!’ exclaims Lancaster. ‘This is marvellous! It’s a pleasure, Kensington’—pumping his hand through the bars—‘truly a pleasure! Read all about your work, think it’s damned exciting!’

‘Thank you, sir!’ says Kensington, no less pleased by the acquaintance. ‘My brother Bernard is an explorer of sorts, too! Nowhere near your calibre, of course — but he takes great joy from climbing mountains and such. He’ll be terribly jealous to hear I’ve met you. But did you say you came to see me ? What on earth could— Well never mind, I’ll take you to my rooms and we’ll have it all out.’

Benton is entirely unimpressed by Lancaster’s celebrity; but he at last finds the key and with a scowl releases us. Kensington leads us along the corridor, which seems much less sinister now that we are out of our cell. This subterranean chamber is not, as I had surmised, a dungeon — our cell is the only one in it — but more of a cellar or basement. It is cluttered with all manner of strange objects which I suppose to be the raw materials necessary for inventors to make marvellous things.

We reach a stairway, which having ascended we find ourselves just within the front door of the club. The room is high-ceilinged and rather grand. It seems much like any other club, and I am surprised by how ordinary it is.

‘I’m very sorry you were received so unceremoniously,’ Kensington says, leading us through a doorway. ‘There has been trouble with the police, you see — we daily expect a siege. Harriston designed the trapdoor for emergencies, and Benton has been trained to admit strangers only with the utmost caution.’ He turns to the butler and adds, ‘Please tell the president that all has been resolved and I am taking the guests to my rooms.’ Benton bows stiffly and stalks off.

‘But what in God’s name could the police want with a clubful of inventors?’ asks Lancaster. I am listening with only half an ear. Any semblance of normalcy the place might have had vanished the moment we left the foyer, and my attention is now consumed by the peculiar sights all around me. We follow Kensington through room after room packed with workbenches and drafting tables at which sit men of every conceivable description. Their only unifying trait is the quickness of their eyes and deftness of their fingers. Everywhere are the strangest and most marvellous clockwork contraptions— gadgets, I should say. In the centre of one room, surrounded by dozens of hushed onlookers, is a sort of mannequin that is moving of its own accord. Its motions are jerky, halting, uncertain; but without a doubt autonomous. Another room is filled with smoke, and liveried footmen bustle to and fro with buckets of water and damp blankets, stamping out pockets of embers.* I suppose I must be observing the after-effects of the explosion we had heard from the street.