And Andy made laughter-snortings into his gloved hands. And I recognised those gloves and they were mine.
‘Come on,’ I told him. ‘And remember that you’re deaf, dumb and blind, so don’t say anything unless I ask you to.’
‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that, because—’
But I was up the path now and at the front door and I rang the bell. Which was an old-fashioned hand-pull jobbie, which rang a distant brass-bell-on-a-springy-thing jobbie, distantly. In the servants’ quarters, most likely.
And at rather a slackened pace, I considered, an underling arrived and opened the front door for us. A doddering manservant he was, somewhat bow-backed and mangy of hair, and dandruff-flaked about the shoulder regions.
‘Mr Lazlo Woodbine and associate,’ I informed this superannuated wretch. ‘Hasten in conveying us to your mistress - we are expected.’
‘You’re being a lot more Sherlock Holmes than Lazlo Woodbine,’ Andy whispered into my ear.
‘I’m more comfortable with it,’ I said. And then I shushed him and made motions towards the manservant.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said this ancient. ‘Miss Lola-Bonsai is awaiting you in the music room.’
‘Lola-Bonsai,’ I said to Andy. ‘How posh is that? Double-barrelled Christian name.’
‘This manservant smells of cheese,’ whispered Andy as he and I were ushered inside. The entrance hall was well hung with what surely were ancestral portraits - noble men all striking noble poses. Many were battlefield poses. And many of the posers lacked for a limb or two. I drew Andy’s attention to a name plaque attached beneath one of their likenesses. Lord Rhino Wainscott Perbright, it read.
The music room played host to a grand piano and I was sorely tempted to ask whether I might have a little tickle of the ivories. But I considered that it would have been unprofessional to do so. And anyway, I could thrash about on that old Joanna as much as I liked as soon as Lola-Bonsai and I had tied the knot.
There were heavy velvet curtains and these were half-drawn, which lent the room a certain sombreness. A fire blazed well in an ample hearth, though, and an ormolu mantel clock ticked and tocked on the marble mantel shelf. Tick and tock it went, a-ticking our lives away.
Lola was seated at a permanent table.13 She was playing noughts and crosses with real noughts and she laid these delicately aside and rose to her feet as my brother and I were guided into the room.
‘Thank you, Sacheveral,’ she said to the manservant. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to make some coffee for our guests.’
The manservant made some throat-clearing sounds that had a distinct death-rattle quality to them and then shuffled away, never to return. I’d sack him straight away, the moment I moved in, thought I.
‘He’s been in the family for several generations,’ said Lola, smiling at me once again. ‘I’d let him go, but what would become of him?’
I could think of numerous things, all involving a merciful end. ‘He looks after you and your brother,’ I said, ‘Does anyone else live here?’
‘Just myself and that something pretending to be my brother.’
I nodded thoughtfully and then said, ‘Perhaps I might now meet this impostor.’
‘He’s at work in his laboratory. But if we beat loud and long enough at the door, he will eventually let us in.’
‘Lead on then, fair lady,’ said I. And I gestured to Andy that he should stay where he was.
Lola led the way. And I followed Lola. And Andy, in turn, followed me.
Up a broad sweep of carpeted stairs, along a corridor adorned with further ancestral portraits. Up a smaller staircase, along a narrower corridor, up a little itsy-bitsy staircase and into a corridor so narrow that we had to edge along it with our breath held in. And then Lola began beating on a door and shouting for admittance and after a considerable period of this, sounds were heard of bolts being drawn and a narrow door creaked open.
It had about it the narrowness of a floorboard and it required considerable effort to squeeze ourselves into the room that lay beyond. Which thankfully was a spacious room with a high-domed night-dark ceiling.
‘Pongo,’ said Lola-Bonsai. And the strain was evident upon her face as she spoke the name of her brother. ‘Pongo, these gentlemen have come to see you regarding a pressing matter.’
Pongo viewed my brother and me. And I do have to say that I liked the look of Pongo. He looked like an all-right-kind-of-a-cove to me. He was tall and dignified, with dark hair swept back behind his ears and a very natty Clark Gable-style pencil moustache. His features and his person ran to gauntness and this gauntness suited him. His eyes were blue and pale as a dawning sky and these eyes he now fixed upon me. And a slender right hand he extended also.
‘Mr Woodbine?’ said the possibly ersatz Pongo. ‘Mr Lazlo Woodbine? ’
‘Why, yes,’ I replied as I shook on this hand. ‘But how did you know? Did your sister tell you we were coming?’
‘Not a bit of it. I recognised you immediately - the fedora, the trench coat, the way you carry yourself - you are Woodbine. You could be no other.’
‘Well,’ I said. And I grinned, fairly grinned. What an excellent fellow, I thought.
‘And this must be—’ And then he put a finger to his lips. ‘But he does not speak, for he is enigmatic. He is an enigma. He is forever cool.’
And Andy grinned somewhat at this. And then shook the slender right hand.
‘And my darling sister, Lola,’ the Pongo impersonator (?) continued. ‘Looking so beautiful this morning.’
‘I have to go,’ said Lola, and she squeezed her way from the room. Leaving my brother and me in the company of whoever it was we were with.
‘So, gentlemen,’ said this fellow, ‘what is it that you require of me?’ I looked at Andy. And he looked back at me. And I confess that I was stuck for a reply. I had not actually thought about what I was going to say when I came face to face with the brother-who-might-not-be.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘It’s a rather delicate matter.’
‘It’s Lola, isn’t it?’ said the fellow. ‘Do you mind if I continue working while we talk?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ I said. And I cast an eye around and about the room. It was a circular room and it didn’t have any windows. And that meant something to me, although I didn’t know why. This circular room was a very busy room. It owned to a lot of stuff. Alchemical stuff. The classic alchemist’s paraphernalia.
I ogled the crucibles, the alembics, the cauldrons and retorts.
‘You have accumulated a remarkable collection of alchemical ephemera,’ I observed.
‘You have some knowledge of the philosophical arts?’
‘Some,’ I said. ‘I know which way up you hold an aspersorium.’
‘Splendid. Then you can hold mine for a while, if you wish.’
And I smiled at him and he smiled back at me. Nice fellow.
And I watched him as he worked. As he tended to the distilling tubes and the purification thuribles and the anti-oxidisation sprongs and the catalytic cross-transducers.
Not to mention the megatronic tropositors, which I never did, for to have done so would have been impolite. But it was all very state-of-the-art.
‘My sister,’ said the alchemically inclined one. ‘She is the reason for you being here, I suspect.’
He handed me the aspersorium and I held it. The right way up.
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked. ‘Why would your sister ask us to visit you?’
‘Ah, you are as subtle as I might have expected, Mr Woodbine. You seek to catch me out with your cunning wordplay.’
‘I assure you that I do not,’ I assured him. And I handed back his transistorised aspersorium.
‘She is very highly strung,’ said the aspiring alchemist. ‘Since the death of our parents there is only her and myself. The last of the Perbrights. My father’s will divided the estate equally between us. Should one of us die, or something of a similar nature, th
e entire fortune would then pass to the other.’
‘I understand that the family’s fortunes are somewhat depleted,’ I said. ‘Could I hold the grum-widget now, please?’
And I was handed the grum-widget.
‘My sister gets ideas into her head, you see, Mr Woodbine - that I am trying to kill her, or that I am not myself, but some impostor, that I am trying to have her committed to a mental institution so that I might claim the fortune.’
‘But I understand that there is no fortune,’ I said.
‘It is not a monetary fortune. There is no money. There is an inheritance, but nothing I need explain here and now.’
I shook my head. ‘I am becoming a little confused,’ I said. ‘You are saying that if one of you were to be committed to a lunatic asylum, the other would inherit. And your sister’s behaviour - and I admit, yes, she did ask us here - her behaviour, not believing that you are the real you, might well be construed as a psychiatric condition that will lead her into a mental institution.’
‘Intriguing, isn’t it, Mr Woodbine? Her accusations against me load the dice against her. What do you make of that?’ And he now took up a slap-nosed doohickey. And as I had never seen one of those before, I was at a loss to know which way up it was supposed to be held.
‘So,’ said our host, ‘is there anything you wish to ask me? Some personal details of Pongo Perbright’s life that only Pongo would know about?’
I gave my fedora a scratching. I rather wished that I’d pre-planned a question or two. I could have asked Lola to tell me some personal details. It would have been pretty conclusive evidence one way or the other.
‘There was one thing,’ I said, as it now (and this was a flash of inspiration on my part) occurred to me that I could do this the other way round: ask him first, then check his answer with Lola. ‘Pongo had a favourite toy when he was very young. What was it and what was his pet name for it?’
‘It was a trowel,’ said Pongo. ‘And it still is. And its pet name is Trowel.’
I looked at Andy, who shrugged.
‘I don’t think I need take up any more of your time, sir,’ I said. ‘I think that perhaps this is a family affair that should be kept within the family.’
‘You are astuteness personified.’ And Pongo Perbright stuck out his hand once more for a shake. And I shook it firmly and Andy and I squeezed from the circular lab.
We returned to the music room and Lola was waiting for us there. I didn’t really know what to say to her apart from asking about Pongo’s favourite toy and I thought I would hold on to that for a while, so as to come across as really clever when I dropped it into the conversation. So when she offered to make Andy and me some coffee, as Sacheveral had still not returned, I took her up on the offer. And while she was away I spoke to Andy.
‘What do you make of all this?’ I asked him.
‘They’re both barking,’ was Andy’s conclusion. ‘But that’s toffs for you.’
‘He seems like a very nice fellow,’ I said. ‘But then she seems like a very nice lady and one who is clearly in love with me, but afraid to show her feelings. But if one is out to get the other, then I don’t know which one it might be.’
‘I bet you’d rather side with her,’ said Andy.
‘Well . . .’ And I shrugged. ‘But he was a nice fellow, wasn’t he? Cool haircut.’
‘Very cool haircut,’ said Andy. ‘Just like mine.’
‘Just like yours?’ And I laughed. ‘Yours is a girly haircut, all short on the top and rattails down the sides and back.’
‘It is the latest style,’ said Andy. ‘And I invented it. I call it the mullet. After the fish. Although I don’t remember why.’
‘Well, Pongo’s was nothing like yours. His was all slicked-back behind his ears. Very stylish, as was his moustache.’
‘Moustache?’ said Andy. ‘He didn’t have a moustache.’
‘He had a Clark Gable,’ I said. ‘If you are hoping to become a private eye like me, you will have to hone your observational skills. Take in the small details. That’s very important.’
‘He did not have a moustache,’ said Andy. ‘He had a mullet and no moustache. Little blokes like him can’t wear moustaches. It makes them look like Hitler.’
‘Little blokes?’ I said. ‘He was tall, that Pongo. He was easily as tall as me.’
‘Get away,’ and Andy laughed. ‘He was positively dwarf-like. But in a nice way. I really took to him.’
‘Tall, short, moustache, no moustache?’
And I looked at Andy and he in turn looked at me.
And then Lola returned with a tray-load of coffee, and this tray-load included biscuits, too.
She set down her tray-load upon the permanent table and then looked at Andy and me, who were still looking at each other.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked of me.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all. If I were to ask you to describe the fellow upstairs, who you claim is not your brother, but according to you looks identical to your brother, how would you describe him?’
Lola shrugged, prettily. ‘Medium height?’ she said.
‘Anything else?’
And Lola shrugged again. ‘Apart from his huge red beard I can’t think of anything particularly striking about him,’ she said.
24
‘So what do you make of all that?’ I asked Andy.
We were home now, having travelled back from the Perbright residence upon a number 65 bus, and we were now sitting down in our sitting room. Andy sat in the visitors’ chair and I upon the Persian pouffe. And I poked at the fire with a poker that I had removed from the brass companion set that was topped by a fine brass galleon in full sail.
‘I think we’re dealing with an alien here,’ said Andy. ‘A shape-changing alien.’
I shook my head at such stuff and nonsense. ‘Your answer to everything is always, “it’s an alien”. You said that last time and it wasn’t really aliens, was it?’
‘No,’ said Andy. ‘It was zombies last time. But your point is?’
‘That it’s unlikely to be an alien.’
‘We don’t have too many other options. He could be one of the fairy-folk, I suppose. They can disguise their true forms. They cast the Glamour upon you.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ I said.
‘You think so?’ Andy asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I do not! But it’s an odd one, isn’t it? He appeared differently to each of us. I wonder if you got a hundred people to look at him whether they’d all see someone different.’
‘Perhaps there’s nothing strange about it at all,’ said Andy. Perhaps it’s perfectly natural and we’re all like that. People see each other differently. All people. Which is why the unlikeliest people fall in love with each other. Where you might see a big fat munter of a woman, the man in love sees a Raquel Welch lookalike.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ I said. ‘You don’t think that can be true, do you?’
‘Probably not. But we could try it out. Check passers-by, see if our descriptions of them tally.’
‘What about Mum?’ I said. ‘We could start with her.’
Mother entered the room to top up the coal scuttle. And as she emptied coal from the pockets of her apron into it, Andy and I sized her up and committed her description to memory.
Which, upon her departure, we shared. And it tallied.
‘I think it’s just him,’ I said. ‘I think he has a special gift.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t even know that he has it.’
‘Or perhaps he has just acquired it, through his alchemical experiments or something. Which would explain why his sister doesn’t think that he’s the real him. A family member would have an instinctive intuition thing going, wouldn’t they?’
‘That’s very good,’ said Andy. ‘I like that. By the by, I don’t recall you discussing money with this Lola Perbright. Money, to whit, our fee.’
‘We haven’t earned it yet,’ I said.
‘So how do you propose that we do?’
‘Well,’ I said to Andy, ‘I have been thinking about that. And I have come up with a bit of a plan. I think you will like it because it will involve you putting on a disguise. And you do like doing that, don’t you?’
And Andy nodded.
‘So you and this Pongo character, whoever or whatever he might prove to be, have something in common. Lean over here and I’ll whisper my plan.’
‘You will whisper?’
‘I will.’
And I did.
Now, as this was before I had perfected the Tyler Technique, I was still going in for the proactive, hands-on school of private detection. And if you are hands-on, you are quite likely to find yourself getting your hands dirty.
And this I soon found out, to my cost.
We returned to the Perbright residence. At midnight. I wore my trench coat and fedora, but in order to disguise myself (as I did not have a tweed jacket) I also wore a pair of sunglasses.
Andy, in his turn, had taken a great deal of trouble to get his disguise ‘just so’. And ‘just so’ it most certainly was, and I congratulated him upon it.
There were no Number 65s at midnight, so we had to walk. And I recall commenting that it was a very great shame that the Bedford van that was The Sumerian Kynges’ gig bus had not been discovered along with all the music gear. And that, as detectives, we really needed a car.
And Andy said that he would take care of the car business. And that he had not forgotten that he was to be the new lead singer of The Sumerian Kynges (although I remain unsure as to how he got this idea in his head) and how I should call Mr Ishmael and ask when rehearsals would recommence.
And we trudged on through the night. Although the snow was beginning to melt. Which made the way now slushy.
We trudged and tromped and slopped and when we arrived at the Perbright residence we searched its façade for lights.