Monica Hatherley: Conjuror Girl, #3

By Stephen Palmer

In an alternate 1900...

Central London, and Monica finds herself embroiled in the affairs of the Hatherley family, with whom, against her will, she is tied; and at least one scion of that family is a traitor to her.

 

Soon the future of the country itself is at stake, as Monica uncovers the darkest of plots undertaken by the most heinous of men. But if she is to triumph against the odds she must come to terms with her own talent, and in doing so discover who she really is...

 

The final book in the Conjuror Girl trilogy, a most peculiar adventure through a fantastical alternative fin de siècle Britain where the darkest creations are those that come from within.

 

'His work is unique, original, sometimes challenging, always fresh...' Amazing Stories

• Language: English
• Publisher: infinite press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201973063

Book preview

Some Reviews of Stephen Palmer’s Books

Stephen Palmer is a find. Time Out

"A gonzo homage to the late Victorian/Edwardian British adventure yarn... imagine Michael Palin and Terry Jones’ Ripping Yarns doing a Steampunk episode with a large helping of early 70s British prog-rock psychedelia, some very peculiar flying machinora, and a chocolate train... Stephen Palmer is a writer you should read. His work is unique, original, sometimes challenging, always fresh and sometimes barking... Hairy London is strange, mad, subversive and possibly just a little bit dangerous. You won’t have encountered a vision of London like it." Amazing Stories

Stephen Palmer has concocted a beguiling adventure that draws on some of the best sf of recent years for its basic themes... Starburst

Stephen Palmer’s imagination is fecund... Interzone

This latest novel confirms that in Stephen Palmer, science fiction has gained a distinctive new voice. Ottakar’s

Give him a try; his originality is refreshing. David V Barrett

... (a) supremely odd yet deeply rewarding experience. CCLaP

...a thrilling chase across a ravaged Europe, a burgeoning North Africa and balkanised US, interleaving excellent action set-pieces with fascinating philosophising on the nature of consciousness. A gripping read to the poignant last line. The Guardian, on Beautiful Intelligence

Palmer is a writer of unique and remarkable imagination. Teresa Edgerton, SFF Chronicles

Monica Hatherley

Book three of the Conjuror Girl trilogy

Stephen Palmer

Published by

infinite press

www.infinityplus.co.uk/infinitepress.php

Follow @ipebooks on Twitter

© Stephen Palmer 2021

Cover © Tom Brown,

with design © Stephen Palmer

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Books by Stephen Palmer

Memory Seed

Glass

Flowercrash

Muezzinland

Hallucinating

Urbis Morpheos

The Rat and The Serpent

Hairy London

Beautiful Intelligence

No Grave for a Fox

The Girl With Two Souls (Factory Girl, book one)

The Girl With One Friend (Factory Girl, book two)

The Girl With No Soul (Factory Girl, book three)

Tommy Catkins

Monique Orphan (Conjuror Girl, book one)

Monica Orvan (Conjuror Girl, book two)

Thanks to: Penny Blake, Keith Brooke, Nimue Brown, Tom Brown, Ron Bourley, Phil Gillam, Jim Hawkins, Heather Large, Rich Lefevre, Katie Rink, Joe Shooman, Alex Whiteley, Anna Wright.

Dedication

To Nicci,

forever

CHAPTER 1

Monica handed the note to Lily, her hands trembling.

She glanced down the street, hoping to see the youth who had delivered the note, but he had vanished. Yet in his place stood a burly man, shaven-headed, bearded, and wearing dirty black clothes. He stared at Monica.

Look up, Monica said, tugging at Lily’s arm. We’re being watched.

Lily glanced aside. But this is nonsense, she replied. How could you be married? It is a sham document, made to frighten you. You must admit, Monica, there are folk about who dislike you, and may even act against you.

Never mind that, said Monica. Who’s that man watching us?

Now Lily looked along the street. A rough sort, she said. Ignore him. He will not dare accost us.

He’s approaching!

Lily clasped Monica to her side. Stand firm. We are out in the open, and may not be assailed. If we are, scream and accuse him. In the open he cannot interfere with us.

Monica felt her heartbeat race, though she was comforted by Lily’s words. You’re right. There’s too many people about. But... who is he?

The man halted a few feet away. Pimples and dark marks disfigured his cheeks and chin, which his long beard seemed grown to conceal. Monica Hatherley, he said. My young assistant identified you.

Lily stepped forward. What is all this nonsense about marriage? Who are you, sir?

My job is to take Mrs Hatherley down to London, where her husband awaits. The man glanced aside as a group of women passed by. The train leaves in half an hour. Please walk with me to the railway station.

She will do no such thing! Lily said.

Shhh, Monica said, waving at Lily. Turning to the man she said, I won’t do as you ask because I’m not married and I’ve never seen you before.

You’ll accompany me, he insisted. We’re leaving today. We must.

Monica laughed. Without my belongings? Don’t be ridiculous.

Belongings? the man said. All those lie in London, with your husband.

"They lie in my hotel."

He grimaced. Go to your hotel and get them.

Monica turned her back on the man, winking at Lily. Then we shall go to the hotel, she said.

Lily glared at the man then said, Very well, Monica – but with style and grace. This oaf will not chivvy us.

Arm in arm the pair walked along St Mary’s Street. Dusk laid deep shadows across the street as gas lanterns glowed within their gloom. Halting upon the front door step of the Prince Rupert Hotel, Monica glanced back at the man, who stood a couple of yards behind.

I won’t be long, she told him.

Five minutes at the most, he replied, glancing at his pocket watch. Monica noticed that it gleamed gold. The steam train won’t wait for us.

Monica hustled Lily inside the hotel.

That’s no oaf, she said. He’s in disguise. Did you see his pocket watch?

No. Why?

Never mind now. We need to find Henri and Lord Buckler. Somebody’s chasing me already.

They located Henri sitting in front of a log fire. Seeing their faces, he threw aside his newspaper and stood up. Something happens? he asked.

Monica gestured to the street, waved the note and said, A man, with this document. He claims I’m married and must take the next train to London with him!

Henri stared. But who? Who knows of you here?

He accosted us in the street, Lily said. He must be from the Reifiers.

Henri nodded. Their headquarters is in London. Yes... messages will constantly have been travelling back and forth. Clearly somebody in the capital wants you.

"What shall we do? Monica asked. Where’s Lord Buckler?"

Out. We must act at once. This man, he is outside the hotel front?

Monica nodded.

Then we shall avail ourselves of the back.

They followed Henri as he hurried into the warren of rooms at the rear of the hotel. Into the kitchen they ran, heedless of decorum, whereupon Henri spoke in French to one of the chefs. The old man glanced at Monica and Lily, nodded, then gestured for them all to follow him. Monica felt desperate now, appalled that already she was in danger after so short a respite. At her side Lily looked determined, albeit pale-faced.

They crept out of a door into an algae-green alley filled with dead leaves and kitchen debris. A few rats squeaked, scattering into their holes. At the end of the alley the chef glanced up and down, then nodded. Henri took Monica’s hand and led her out, Lily following. One minute later they stood at the Bear Steps entrance to St Alkmund’s cemetery, dusk wrapping them in darkness.

We are alone, Henri said.

What next? asked Monica.

Henri ground his teeth together. Curse them, that they will not leave us alone for one single day.

They? Monica asked.

He shrugged. It must be Reifier work. Who else? They know you and your ability, do they not? Especially Dr Noct.

Monica shuddered. He’s their commander?

The worst of them all, Henri replied. "He lives at number fifteen Downing Street, and that is not a situation of political decorum. No... Dr Noct, he has far too much influence. Perhaps he is at the bottom of this new affair. He will constantly have been in touch with Le Grand Réifier after all."

We cannot return to the hotel, Lily said. What shall we do?

Find other accommodation, Henri replied.

Where?

Henri made no reply for a few moments. Perhaps a return to my friend Soddy on Claremont Bank, he whispered. That is not ideal, but it is secure. Then tomorrow we shall creep back into the hotel, retrieve our belongings, and depart.

For London?

Henri nodded. For the capital city, as planned, by train or airship. Where else?

~

After breakfast the next day, Henri left the house on Claremont Bank to return to the Prince Rupert Hotel. Monica and Lily peered through curtains at the street outside. Monica felt anxious, the joy and excitement of her victory quashed by new perils.

Lily nudged her with a sharp elbow. I am quite certain that roof is melting, she said.

Monica scowled. "What? Oh, what now, Lily? Can’t you leave me alone even for one moment?"

But look. Do you not see it is sliding downwards?

Monica looked where Lily pointed. One of the houses opposite had a slate roof with tall chimneys, and that did appear to be more shiny than others at its side. She noticed there were no birds on the roof, unlike all the others. She yawned, then said, It’s just the sun.

"It is melting."

It’s doing no such thing. You’re daydreaming because of all the excitement. We really need to get to London as soon as possible, so that we can be free of pursuit. All the Reifiers in town will know of my presence here. I want to hide, Lily.

Lily gave Monica a lingering appraisal, then said, I spoke to Mr Soddy’s valet this morning, just after we ate breakfast.

You will speak with any young man who shows a quick smile in a handsome face.

Lily ignored the barb. He told of there being no Reifiers today.

Monica frowned. To you?

No, to the maidservant.

Monica sat upright, worried by this news. Tell me more.

That’s all I heard. I asked him, and he claimed they had all departed. But at the time all I could think of was kippers.

At once Monica stood up. We must know for certain. Follow me.

Downstairs, they found the young valet. Oh yes, it’s true, he told Monica. They all departed Shrobbesbury at dawn, every last one of them. My friend Bob Chatterwright said the big black hulk on Fish Street is bare of jackdaws – not a one! And that’s a sign, I tell you.

Monica shuddered to hear this report. Pulling Lily away, she whispered, Something is happening. That man chasing me yesterday, and with a fake document... now this. What is it, Lily?

Lily pondered, then gripped Monica’s arm and led her upstairs. I am quite certain that roof is melting, she said, looking again out of the window.

They studied the roof of the house opposite, and now Monica thought she saw evidence of melting. Yet how could solid slate do such a thing? Unless...

Could it be Reifier work? she asked. Perhaps the occupants of that house have requested a service from some local Reifier.

Or made an enemy of one, Lily said.

They exchanged glances. Monica studied all the buildings she could see. Look! she said, pointing to a large house at the bottom of the bank. That roof is melting too.

We need binoculars.

Monica nodded. Flutter your eyelashes at that young valet and acquire a pair from him. Mr Soddy’s bound to have such an item. Hurry!

Lily ran off, leaving Monica to study the street. Now she felt vulnerable, not least because Henri was elsewhere. And she felt afraid. The events of recent weeks had been a whirlwind around her, one she had thought blown out following the downfall of Mr Goldgate. Yet it seemed other powerful folk had their gaze upon her; and if she followed her heart and travelled to London, she would be heading into their clutches.

Through binoculars she studied the roofs around her. All now showed some sign of melting: runnels of liquid slate, rounded brick edges, with some chimneys like part-expired candles.

This is Reifier work, she said. What if Mr Soddy’s roof is also melting?

We must hope for Henri’s imminent return. It would be too dangerous to stay.

The rest of the morning passed. Henri did not return. Now Monica’s anxiety deepened into horror, as the roofs of houses all around continued melting, then began dripping onto the street. People outdoors noticed. Ladies stopped to point, as men stood around discussing the apparition. In front of every Claremont Bank residence lines of melting stone built up like soft stalagmites, which urchins would poke with sticks before, perturbed, running away. Slowly, like dark dough, these piles of melted stone oozed downhill, leaving dark dribbles on the pavement.

Local churches struck midday.

We must decide what to do, Lily declared.

Monica sighed. I still think we should wait for Henri. If we depart, we won’t know where he is.

He must be at the hotel. Let us go there now.

We can’t go there. They’re watching out for me.

Lily accepted this statement with poor grace. Look yonder, she said, pointing in the direction of the Dell. Even Lune is melting.

With dread, Monica observed through the binoculars. Lune was indeed going soft at the edges, changing from a crescent to an ovoid.

And Lune was good, local work, said Lily.

Monica allowed her gaze to range far and wide through the binoculars. Everything I can see is melting, she said. This house will be too. Oh, but Lily, I daren’t go outdoors because people are searching for me again. I’m frightened.

"We must leave. You have seen what happens to objects poked into those piles of melted slates."

Monica nodded. Such sticks remained fixed. Already they had seen gentlemen pulling their feet from their boots having got stuck in slate dribbles, to walk away, dumbfounded, in their socks. What if all Claremont Bank melted? What if people themselves became trapped in melted stone?

Let’s give Henri another hour, she said. Go and find the valet and request a report on the state of Mr Soddy’s roof. Check the rear windows for a clear exit.

Lily ran away at once, returning a few minutes later. A message has just been received from Mr Soddy’s club, she said. He instructs us all to prepare for evacuation.

Of the house? Where to?

The evacuation of Shrobbesbury, Lily replied.

Monica stared. But where can we go? Did Mr Soddy say what’s going on?

Lily shook her head. Are you not tempted to leave now? she asked. "I am frightened. This is Reifier work, and on a huge scale. Did they not leave town this morning, like rats departing a sinking ship? Their jackdaws vanished! That was an omen. They have done this thing, or Dr Noct has, or somebody. And we cannot remain, to become victims."

But... Henri–

We must act without him! At the very least we must flee this house to find some part of town not yet melting. We know nothing of how this day might progress. I beg you Monica, will you not see sense? To stay here is to perish.

Monica sensed the urgency in Lily’s voice. You’re right, she said. We’ll have to act. We can’t wait any more.

Exactly! The roof might collapse. The walls might collapse. Look at that house across the road now, its entire upper storey is starting to melt. What if we do not have one hour?

Entombed, Monica whispered. Then she leaped to her feet. Come, let’s run. It’s too dangerous here. We’ll head in the direction of the hotel if we can, but if not we’ll go down to the river and cross the Powys Bridge.

Lily nodded, an expression of relief on her face. You grab food and wrap it in a cloth, she said. I’ll see if I can purloin coats from the maidservant. Meet you at the front door.

A few minutes later they stood inside the front hall, the valet and maidservant at their side. Are we all agreed, Lily said, that we must leave now?

Mr Soddy told us to prepare, the maidservant said. We’ve prepared. Now we must flee.

Good luck to you both, Lily replied. When you see your master, tell him how grateful we are for his aid, and wish him well.

The maidservant nodded, then opened the front door and led the youth out. Monica followed, sniffing the air. A rich, acrid odour wafted down the street from higher up. On the pavement, she looked left, then with one hand at her mouth she pointed. St Chad’s is half-melted away! The dome is gone.

Lily took her arm and dragged her across the street, pulling her away from the runnels of liquid stone. Look where you’re going, she said. Concentrate! One false step and you’ll be stuck. This whole town is melting.

In the middle of the street, they dodged carriages, then halted. Monica listened: an unearthly hubbub. Do you hear something?

Lily’s face turned pale. That is the noise of a rabble, she murmured.

Folk are panicking, folk are fleeing. Powys Bridge will be a crush.

Nevertheless, we must go that way.

They picked their way to the bottom of Claremont Bank, but there saw a terrible sight. The entire road before them was full of commotion: carriages, carts, people fleeing in the direction of the bridge with their goods on their backs. It was indeed a rabble: loud, chaotic, a mob.

We’ll be run over, Monica said. We can’t go that way.

What other bridge lies nearby? None. Willow Walk, perhaps?

Monica quailed. You lead.

Take my hand. At all costs we must not become separated. We shall meet Henri, do not worry. He will escape. She gave Monica a glance of mixed awe and horror. After all, she added, he escaped the sinking Paris.

Oh, don’t! Monica said. Lead on.

At the bottom of the bank, they tried to push into the press of people and vehicles, but it was difficult, the mob now almost motionless. Peering around a corner, Monica caught glimpses of the Powys Bridge.

It’s a crush, motionless, pandemonium, she told Lily.

Then we cannot head that way. Willow Walk it must be.

Monica turned, but then saw somebody in the crowd waving. It’s Henri!

Lily whirled around, and together they forged a way through the mob in Henri’s direction, while he did the same in theirs, so that, after a few minutes, they stood together in a tiny doorway.

Henri hugged each of them, kissed them on the cheek, then said, The Bridge Powys, it is impassable, already melting. Labourers attempt to make it passable by laying planks over the melted way. Some carts, they have gone over, but now the whole town knows the end is nigh. It is a rout!

What shall we do?

There is only one option – the little footbridge by the Port. Most people, they will take their cart or their hand truck, with their possessions, you know? Because fools think of such things first. They will head for the three large bridges, or maybe head through the North Town Wall. But a foot bridge, it might be an easier way.

But that bridge is narrow and perilous, said Monica, slats on ropes fit only for drovers with nerves of steel.

Such we shall have to become, he replied. Unless you can swim?

In these garments? said Lily. To the footbridge.

They turned and fled, taking an alley towards the river then heading along Willow Walk for the Broad Garden. At the Port they saw a number of boats on the river filled with people, which Monica grasped was a rescue effort mounted by the local labourers. Beside the river scores of people stood, with an equal number waving at them from the other side. Clearly many Westtown residents had already been ferried across the river.

May we not use a boat? Lily asked.

Henri surveyed the scene. I would much rather use our own wits, he said. He glanced over his shoulder, then gestured at the Broad Garden, already dark with melted stone oozing downhill. Look! People skip and leap the sticky flows to try and escape. In half an hour all of Willow Walk will be invisible beneath them. The mob... they know Shrobbesbury is melting. Therefore we must use our own efforts. Speed is essential. Lily! Do not panic.

Monica pointed at the footbridge. It’s not so bad, she said, and some people are using it to escape. It’s the best way, Lily.

But... but...

Now Monica took the lead, realising that Henri was correct to warn of the approaching throng. Hundreds of people nearby were heading for the river, and some had become trapped in melted stone; their fate, she knew, was sealed. Energised by terror she hurried forward, dragging Lily with her, side by side, the pair running, Henri following. Moments later they stood by the footbridge. A drovers’ way, it was little more than thick ropes and slats, ignored by all except Port labourers. Monica studied it, assessing how her reserves of courage might cope with such a precarious way. Yet on the further side she could see children crossing – moving sideways, like monkeys – with a few adults also. It was a desperate measure, yet viable.

She leaped forward, gripping the two posts on the bank and preparing to jump up. But Henri strode forward and grabbed her wrist.

She turned, face twisting. "What? she cried. Come on!"

I think the middle slats are melting, he said.

Monica looked further along the bridge to see a couple of slats dripping into the river. No, she said. "It’s passable, it must be. We’ve got to escape. They’re after me, Henri! They’re watching me, trying to catch me."

Two young men ran up, barging Henri out of the way. Move aside! one shouted. Out the way, lass.

Monica stood firm, but they shoved her aside then jumped upon the bridge. She watched as they negotiated it. Where the two slats melted they placed their boots on the ropes and crossed legs akimbo, like circus gymnasts.

I cannot do such a thing, Lily said.

You must! Monica replied. Look, those men have managed.

Henri nodded. You must, Lily. It is now the only way. The main bridges are beyond us, if even we could return and re-join the mob. This or the river, they are the only ways.

Monica looked down Willow Walk to see hundreds of people all clamouring for boats. It’s the footbridge or nothing, she declared. All of Shrobbesbury is trying to escape. Soon we’ll be over-run.

Lily stared at her. But... what of Lord Buckler? We must wait for him.

Henri strode forward. Buckler, he will manage. I left him at the hotel, you know? He has many aides and suchlike, so he will survive this. The aristocracy, Lily, they always survive.

Perceiving that Lily had not grasped the irony of Henri stating this, Monica studied the river, already full of debris from the melting town. Those boats won’t last long anyway, she said. "They’ll either melt themselves, or be holed by planks, and sink. Come on, Lily! You’ve got to do this. Follow me."

Henri pulled Lily to the footbridge as Monica took her first steps upon it. You shall go next, he said, and I will follow directly behind. In that way we shall cross. If you make a mis-step, I shall be there to catch you. Quickly!

Turning, Monica took Lily’s hand and placed it on the rope. Lily, wide-eyed, stepped upon the first plank and took one pace forwards.

That’s it, said Monica. Now you, Henri.

Soon all three of them stood upon the footbridge. Ropes creaked. The wooden slats bowed, but held. One step forward, slow and easy, Henri said.

There came a cry from ahead. Monica looked up to see one of the young men dangling from the lower rope as the other fell; then a splash as the fallen man hit the water. A few seconds later he reappeared, spat out water, then swam for the far bank.

No! Lily wailed.

Too late – the bridge parted. Monica jumped back, falling as Lily and Henri struck the muddy bank above her. She heard a splash: the second young man falling into the river. Winded, she scrambled to her feet, leaped forward and pushed Lily up to the path, Henri pulling her, cursing and gasping for breath.

We are trapped, Lily murmured. The town will encroach and drown us.

Never! Henri said. He crouched down, looking this way and that, his head darting from side to side, legs bent at the knee. There! he said. That will do.

Gasping for breath, Monica leaned over to see where he pointed. A large door was floating down the river just a few feet from the bank. Grab it! she cried. We can raft across.

Henri slid down the bank and waded out, grabbing the door then tugging it in. It floats well, he said. It will do. Lily! Come here.

Lily remained motionless. Monica, sensing Lily’s terror, pushed her hard enough for her to over-balance. Then she leaped forward, crouching down to grab Lily’s flailing hand, so that when Lily fell she was secure. Lily screamed, digging her boot heels into the mud to halt her slide.

Enough, you two! Henri said. Get yourself on this door. It will hold you both.

But what about you? Lily asked.

I can swim. Lily, cease your feminine paroxysm! This is the only way, and we all know it. The boats are either full or gone to the other side. Will you swim? No! Therefore, you will float.

Monica glanced aside, to see some men already swimming.

She helped Lily down to the water, then held one hand as Henri took the other and hauled Lily, bedraggled and muddy, onto the door.

Do not fidget, he said. Lie still, then you will not capsize.

Monica clambered onto the door from the other side, then positioned herself opposite Lily. We’re balanced, she said.

Now Henri took a deep breath and launched himself into the water, swimming around the door, grabbing it with his left hand, then, using his legs and his free hand, pulling it away from the bank. With improvised strokes and much cursing he managed to haul the door into the main flow.

We will go diagonal downstream, he cried out. Do not move! I believe I can do this. The water is cold, but perhaps not too cold.

"Don’t speak, Monica said. The water will soon freeze you. Use all your energies to pull us."

He looked away, gasping and grunting with the effort. Knowing the sinister reputation of cold water, Monica watched, willing him on. A minute passed. Another. The far bank approached, but Henri was failing, enfeebled by cold water, his muscles weakening.

Help! Monica shouted, waving at the two young men on the far bank.

They spoke to one another, but did not move.

It’s only a few yards, Monica cried. Help us!

One man dived into