The English Assassin by Michael Moorcock Page B

gone inside.
    The Red Fox chuckled. “An engineer, I believe,” he said, “of some experience.” He broke into English. “Perhaps we shall meet again in Whitehall, will we not, Master Emissary?”
    “I’ll be damned!”
    Nye turned again to look at the massive battle-fleet cramming the sky, to notice the power of the guns, to speculate upon the destruction they and the aerial torpedoes could accomplish. “I’m dreaming.”
    “D’ye think so?”

THE EXPLORERS
    Catherine Cornelius left her brother’s lodgings in Powys Square. She hurried back through the dark streets to her own house where she had heard Prinz Lobkowitz and his friends awaited her. One or two gas-lamps glowed through the clinging fog but cast little light. There were a few muffled sounds, but she could identify none of them. It was with relief that she entered Elgin Crescent with its big overgrown trees and its tall comfortable houses; perhaps because the street was so familiar the fog did not seem so thick, though she still had to walk with some care until she reached Number 61. Shivering, she unlatched the gate and at last mounted her own steps, searching in her Dorothy bag for her key. She found it, unlocked the door and went inside. Fog drifted in with her. It filled the cold and gloomy hall like ectoplasm. Without taking off her coat she crossed the hall and opened the door to the drawing room. The drawing room was painted in a mixture of yellow and pale brown. She noticed that the fire was almost out. Removing her gloves she reached down and put several pieces of coal on top of the red cinders, then she turned and acknowledged the company. There were two others beside Prinz Lobkowitz; a man and a woman.
    “These are the guests I mentioned,” explained the Prinz softly. “I’m sorry about the fire.” He indicated the woman. “Miss Brunner”—and the man—“Mr Smiles”— and sat down in the horseshoe armchair nearest the grate, one booted foot on the brass rail.
    Catherine Cornelius looked shyly at Miss Brunner and then became wary. Foxy, she thought. Miss Brunner had neat red hair and sharp, beautiful features. She wore a well-cut grey travelling cape and a small pillbox hat perched over her right eye, decorated with a green feather, a tiny veil. Her clothes were buttoned as tightly as the black boots she revealed when seating herself on the arm of Prinz Lobkowitz’s chair. Mr Smiles, bald-headed and large in a dark brown ulster, a long scarf wound several times round his neck, cleared his throat, fingered his muttonchop whiskers as if they were not his own, unbuttoned the ulster and felt in the watch-pocket of his waistcoat, producing a gold half-hunter. He peered at it for a while before he began to wind it. “What’s the time? My watch has stopped.”
    “Time?” Catherine Cornelius stared around the room in search of a clock that was going. There was a black marble one on the mantle, a grandfather in the corner.
    “Nine twenty-six,” said Miss Brunner, referring to the plain silver pendant watch she wore about her neck. “Where are our rooms, my dear? And when shall we expect supper?”
    Catherine passed her hand over her forehead and said vaguely, “Soon. I must apologise. My brother gave me very little warning, I’m afraid. The preparations. Excuse me. I’m sorry.” And she left the room, hearing Miss Brunner say, “Well, it’s a change from Calcutta.”
    * * *
    Catherine found Mary Greasby, the maid-of-all-work, in the kitchen enjoying a glass of madeira with cook. Catherine gave instructions for beds and supper to be prepared. These instructions were received with poor grace by the servants. She returned to the drawing room with a tray on which were glasses and decanters of whisky, sherry and what remained of the madeira.
    Mr Smiles stood with his back to the grate. The fire now blazed merrily. “Ah, splendid,” he said, stepping forward and taking the tray from her. “You must forgive our manners, dear