Tuppe gazed up at the crumbling façade. ‘Looks somewhat gone to seed.’
‘She must know something. Shall we investigate?’
‘Lead on, Mr Murphy.’
Cornelius pushed open the door. The door went creak and groan and a little cracked bell went clink.
‘It smells in here,’ Tuppe remarked.
Cornelius perused the premises. Cobwebs clung to every corner. Dust put the shelved stock out of focus. What light struggled through the unwashed front window soon gave up the ghost in the air that seemed almost palpably grey.
Cornelius plucked an apple from a basket on the low counter. He stroked the dust away with his thumb. The apple crumbled away to dust in his hand.
‘Hello,’ called Cornelius. ‘Is there anybody there?’
Something rustled at the rear of the shop. The sound as of dry leaves being crushed together. A thin, reedy little voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘A customer,’ Cornelius replied. ‘Good morning to you.’
‘I don’t want any customers. Bugger off.’
Cornelius peered into the gloom. A patch of darkness in a far corner seemed somewhat darker than the less dark darkness that surrounded it. So to speak.
‘Are you Molly Hartog?’
‘Who knows my name?’ The little dark patch of slightly darker darkness shrank back to merge quite convincingly with the less dark darkness and form an overall dark sort of an area. All in the one place.
‘My name is Murphy.’
‘Audie Murphy? America’s most decorated hero of the Second World War? Star of Hell Guns of Glory Beach?’ The little dark patch sank deeper into the surrounding darkness. Visually, the change was too subtle to attract much notice. Or any, in fact.
‘His name is Cornelius Murphy,’ Tuppe said. ‘And he is the stuff of epics.’
The little, now indistinguishable dark patch gave a jump and then moved slowly forward into the uncertain light. Here it became an uncertainly illuminated little dark patch. A very little uncertainly illuminated little dark patch. It reached out a tiny hand, encased in black silk. Tuppe took the hand between his own and kissed it.
‘Little manny,’ said Molly Hartog. ‘What is Tiphareth to Kether?’
‘He is the son and not the servant.’
‘And whither comes the wind?’
‘From the east and we with all.’
‘Good good. You may walk with me then.’ The tiny woman took Tuppe by the hand and led him into the darkness at the rear of the shop. Cornelius stared on in wonder.
‘Don’t lag,’ called Tuppe. ‘And best mind yourself.’
Clunk went the head of Cornelius Murphy.
Cornelius sat, uncomfortably doubled up, in a sitting room of meagre dimensions. The ceiling was scarcely four feet above a floor, which was, for the most part, occupied by his legs.
The little woman was brewing tea at a toy stove by the window. She appeared as a Victorian doll, curiously animated. Her tiny pinched face of sculpted wax.
‘What is all this wind from the east business?’ Cornelius whispered.
‘Kin folk.’ Tuppe shushed him to silence. ‘Let me speak to her. Give me the photograph.’ Cornelius gave Tuppe the photograph.
‘Travelling stock, your people?’ The Victorian doll filled a teapot and covered it with an egg cosy.
Tuppe nodded. ‘Before times fell away. My grandfather was with Toomey for a spell and with Wombwell, Polgar and Tom Norman.’
‘The Silver King? I knew them. Knew them all. And I’ll know you too. Let me have a squint.’ She perched a pair of ivory-framed pince-nez on to her sparrow’s beak of a nose and peered through them.
‘Ha ha,’ she crowed. ‘You’re a Tuppe.’
‘I am that. But I don’t know the Hartog clan.’
‘But I knew your pa well enough. Him and his porker pigs. He skipped out when they sent old Polgar to the chokey, eh?’
‘That was him, right enough. And that was him done with the travelling life.’
‘All gone now.’ Molly turned away to pour tea. She stepped on to the tall boy’s left ankle. Cornelius bit his lip. ‘What do you want from me, Tuppe?’
‘Hugo Rune,’ said Tuppe. ‘You knew him.’
‘Poor dear Hugo. I knew him well. He reinvented the ocarina, you know. And, oh how he hated Bud Abbott.’
‘He left some papers, I believe.’
‘Papers? Piles and piles of them. He was a genius, a master. Years before his time. Decades. This world wasn’t big enough to hold Hugo Rune.’
‘These papers? Were they part of a manuscript?’ Tuppe accepted a tea cup the size of a shrunken thimble. ‘Thanks,’ said he.
‘Part of a book.’ Molly passed a cup to Cornelius, who perched it on the palm of his hand and gaped at it in awe. ‘The book. The Book of Ultimate Truths. Such knowledge the Master had. Such wisdom. Such genius. Such an appetite. Barred from every Chinese noodle parlour in West London, he was.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Due to his allergy.’ The miniature woman seated herself on Murphy’s left foot. Cornelius marvelled anew. Now she was apparently without weight.
‘He was allergic to noodles?’ Tuppe sipped his tea.
‘No. Money. Couldn’t bear to have it anywhere near him. Broke out in a sweat at the very sight of it. Or the mention. So there was always trouble when someone presented him with a bill. He offered the world his genius. All he asked in return, was that the world should cover his expenses. Meagre as they were.’
Tuppe raised an eyebrow to Cornelius, who was raising one of his own.
‘And the world wasn’t keen?’
‘Conspiracies. All around. Petty men seeking to do him down. To steal his knowledge and use it for their own wicked ends.’
‘About the papers. Do you have them?’ Tuppe finished his tea.
‘No.’ Molly shook her head. Golden motes drifted from it and hung in the air. ‘Not I. Perhaps Victor.’
‘Victor Zenobia?’
‘Poor dear Victor.’
‘Victor is dead I’m afraid.’
‘Oh.’ Molly bowed her head. ‘Then there are few enough of us left to the cause.’
‘These men?’ Tuppe handed the photograph to Molly.
The little woman gazed at it through her pince-nez. ‘So long ago. There is Victor and the Master, of course. The silly sod that took the photo didn’t get me in. He made a right fuss about not getting his fee, if I recall.’
‘The others in the picture. Who are they?’
Molly pointed. ‘That is Rizla and the other, Joseph.’
‘Might one of them have the papers?’
‘One of them must. Victor was the Master’s accountant. Joseph, his chauffeur. And Rizla, his magical son.’
‘Do you know where Joseph or Rizla might be now?’
‘Why do you want the Master’s papers, young Tuppe?’
‘To publish them in their entirety.’
‘Publish them?’ Molly toppled from the tall boy’s foot and collapsed on to the floor. Tuppe hastened to help her up.
‘Publish them?’ Molly cackled to herself. ‘You can’t publish them. No publisher would dare to publish them. Or even if they did…no, no. It couldn’t be done.’
‘Why not?’
‘If you had read the papers, then you would know.’
‘Tell me, Molly. Joseph and Rizla. Where are they now?’
‘Won’t do you any good. Even if they have the papers, they won’t show them to you.’
‘I could at least ask them.’
‘As you will. All right. Perhaps and perhaps. You have come to ask and so I must tell you. Rizla took holy orders. You will find him at the monastery of Saint Sacco Benedetto.’
‘And Joseph?’
‘Joseph.’ The small woman spat. ‘He’s in London. Calls himself Jack something or other. A big noise in the record industry, whatever that is.’
Cornelius stuffed things into his suitcase. He and Tuppe were now back in
their bedroom at The Hangman’s Arms.
‘Well,’ said Tuppe. ‘What did you make of Molly?’
‘I think I’ll give her muesli a miss.’
‘So,’ Tuppe sat on the portmanteau, kicking his heels. ‘What do you propose we do next?’
‘We shall visit brother Rizla at the monastery. But before we do, I must call Mr Kobold, tell him what I have found out and have him send some more money.’
‘You nip off then. I’ll finish packing.’
‘Thank you, Tuppe. Stick all the papers in the rucksack. We’ll leave the portmanteau behind. I’ll go downstairs and call Mr Kobold. They’re bound to have a phone in the bar.’
They didn’t. In fact they didn’t have a phone anywhere in the village.
‘Never needed one,’ the beautiful barmaid explained, as Cornelius settled up for the bread and board. Tuppe struggled down the stairs with the luggage.
‘Tell you what though,’ the barmaid went on, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you were saying. And I’d quite like to bear your children.’
Cornelius looked at Tuppe.
Tuppe looked at Cornelius.
‘I’ll go and see if I can arrange some transport,’ said Tuppe. ‘I might be some time.’
Milcom Moloch didn’t boast a taxi service. But a nice undertaker with a very smart 1950s hearse agreed to take them to the next town.
Cornelius waved through the back window. The beautiful barmaid waved down from an upstairs window. The hearse drove away.
‘Did you get a receipt?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Yes thank you.’ Cornelius was grinning in a manner which was quite difficult to describe.
An hour and a bit later the hearse stopped in a town called Cromcruach. Which is just off the main Hebon under Pertunda bypass, twenty miles north of Triglaf.
‘Thanks very much.’ Cornelius waved to the departing hearse.
‘Be lucky.’ Tuppe waved also.
The hearse went back along the road for a bit, then rose into the sky and vanished into the clouds.
‘There is something very suspicious about that hearse,’ said Cornelius.
‘There certainly is,’ Tuppe agreed. ‘It drove off with your suitcase.’
Cromcruach wasn’t much of a town to speak about. It lacked the bypass of Hebon under Pertunda, and Triglaf certainly had the edge on it when it came to a southerly location.
But it did have a garage and it did have a telephone box. And both of these were to come in handy.
Cornelius took himself off to the telephone box.
Tuppe hung around the garage.
Presently Cornelius returned.
‘How did you get on?’ Tuppe asked.
‘I spoke with Mr Kobold. He seemed very agitated. Kept saying to be careful.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘What I knew. About the papers in the portmanteau and Molly and how I’m going on to the monastery next.’
‘What about Karaoke Jack?’
‘I didn’t mention him. Anyway Mr Kobold suggested that I press on to Manchester tonight.’
‘Manchester? Where is that, do you think?’
‘We can look it up on the map. It’s just outside Manchester, the place we want. The Holiday Inn, North Ameshet. First-class accommodation, I am assured. A room will be waiting and money will be in the post, to arrive first thing tomorrow.’
‘Hats off to Arthur Kobold,’ said Tuppe, rubbing his hands together. ‘By the by, Cornelius. Do you know how to drive a car?’
‘Of course. The daddy taught me.’
‘But your daddy doesn’t own a car.’
‘No. Not as such. But a great lover of the automobile, the daddy. Every time some new one comes out on the market he always calls up the maker and tells them about the small pools win he’s just had.’
‘But your daddy doesn’t do the pools.’
Cornelius raised an eyebrow.
‘Quite so,’ said Tuppe. ‘So you got to try out a few of these nice new cars yourself.’
‘Exactly. I got the hang of it in the end.’
‘And do you have a licence?’
‘Certainly. The daddy gave me his old one.’ Cornelius delved into a pocket and pulled it out. ‘He said it would come in handy one of these days.’
‘Indeed.’ Tuppe smiled up at Cornelius. ‘I’d like you to meet my new friend Mike. He’s a mechanic.’
DA DA DA DA…GIT YA MOTER RUNNIN…
The 1958 Cadillac Eldorado swept out from the garage and set off down the road from Cromcruach.
GIT OWT ONNA HIGHWAAAE…
‘Do you know what I’m looking for?’ Cornelius asked.
‘Adventure,’ Tuppe suggested.
‘And?’
‘Whatever comes your way, would be my guess.’
‘And what am I born to be?’
‘Wild, Cornelius. That is what you’re born to be.’
‘Correct, dear friend. Correct. Tuppe, this a splendid car. I can’t believe that Mike just let us drive it away.’
‘I think it was you telling him about all those posh cars you test drive that really swung it.’
‘And we actually get paid for delivering it to his rich client in London.’ Cornelius stuck his elbow out of the window. ‘Imagine that.’
‘Right place at the right time. Let’s face it. You have to have an epic car if you’re going on an epic journey.’
‘You surely do. And this is one epic car. Electric-blue paint job. Electric-blue upholstery.’
‘Electric windows,’ said Tuppe. ‘Electric sunroof…’
‘Electric lights,’ Cornelius suggested.
‘Electric wireless set.’ Tuppe switched it on.
‘You’re a pink toothbrush, I’m a blue toothbrush,’ sang Max Bygraves.
‘Electric toothbrush?’ Tuppe asked.
The spikey black Volkswagen growled to a halt before The Hangman’s Arms. The Campbell stepped from the car and sniffed the air.
‘They’ve been here,’ he said.
Hamish got out and speared a map on to a couple of bonnet spikes. ‘And where is here, by the way?’
The Campbell examined the map. ‘Right here. Milcom Moloch.’
‘Milcom Moloch?’ Hamish gazed about the place. ‘Did someone nuke it, or what?’
Little remained of Milcom Moloch. The Hangman’s Arms was naught but a roofless ruin. The shells of shops and houses rose from scrubby grasslands. The road was gone into pot holes. All was desolation and decay.
‘There was a big storm,’ said the Campbell. ‘Like the one last night. Thirty years ago. The village was cut off by floods. Then some Londoner drove in here. And they’d gone. The village was deserted. No trace. Food still on the tables. Vanished off the face of the earth. Pop!’ The Campbell snapped his fingers.
Hamish took off his war bonnet and scratched his head. ‘I’ve never heard that story before. A whole village vanishes?’
‘Pop,’ said the Campbell. ‘Gone. Now go and search around. See what you can find. And you two! Hurry up about it.’
Angus and Sawney slouched from the car.
In the ruins of The Hangman’s Arms they would find a green canvas portmanteau, a brush-and-comb set in a plastic case and a duffle-coat (lacking toggles), some wear on elbows. Hamish would take a shine to the duffle-coat.
Not half a mile along the road from the ruins of Milcom Moloch they would find the ruins of a burned-out taxi-cab. And a man with bandaged fingers and a blue complexion weeping over it. Hamish would take pity upon this sorry figure and give him the duffle-coat to keep himself warm.
Later in the day the taxi driver would be readmitted to the nearby hospital, this time in a state of shock and suffering from suspected rabies. He would insist to his dying day that an arctic wolf had issued from the duffle-coat and savaged him. He would also give up taxi driving and become a monk.
‘I wouldn’t fancy being a monk.’ Tuppe put his hands behind his head and smiled up at the passing sky. ‘You g
o bald too quickly.’
Cornelius smiled and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘They shave their heads. It’s called a tonsure. From the Latin tonsura: a shaving.’
‘Why?’ Tuppe made the electric window go up and down. ‘Why do they do that?’
‘To signify their renunciation of the world and all its vanities. Do leave the window alone, Tuppe.’
Tuppe left the window alone. His hand strayed to the cigarette lighter. ‘Speak to me of tonsures,’ he said.
‘Certainly. There are three types. Firstly there’s the ‘tonsure of St Paul’. That’s the entire head. Mostly practised by the eastern church…Then there’s the ‘tonsure of St Peter’. That’s the most common one. A circular patch on the crown of the head. And finally, there’s the ‘tonsure of St John’. The front of the head is shaved on a line drawn from ear to ear. That was the ancient Celtic method. So it’s sometimes called the Scottish or Irish tonsure. Do leave the cigarette lighter alone, Tuppe.’
Tuppe left the lighter alone. ‘I wonder which method they favour at Saint Sacco Benedetto’s?’ he wondered.
‘Eyebrows and all, I expect. I understand that it is considered the most austere order in the country. Really medieval.’
Tuppe twiddled the wireless dial.
‘Fings ain’t what they used to be,’ sang Max Bygraves.
The electric-blue motor car, with the high fins and the open top, sailed over the crest of a hill and down the other side. The driver’s hair followed close behind. The sun shone brightly down upon the epic travellers. Tuppe found a pair of really spiffing sun-glasses in the glove compartment and Cornelius put them on.
And at precisely twelve o’clock the fan belt broke.
And at precisely five minutes past twelve, they were on their way again.
‘Large kudos to you, dear friend,’ Cornelius told Tuppe. ‘To have Mike the mechanic pack three spare fan belts, that is foresight indeed.’
‘Once bitten and things of that nature,’ smiled Tuppe.
Cornelius slipped one of the spare fan belts on as a headband. ‘I’ll be able to see where I’m going a lot better now,’ he said. ‘Much of it has been guesswork up ‘til now.’