‘Ah,’ said Septimus Grey. ‘I think then that we understand each other.’
‘I think, sir, that we do.’
‘But I still do not understand exactly why you have brought me here.’
‘Let us visit the rear of the building where we might discuss matters in privacy and you might view the wreckage and the extent of the damage done.’ Chief Inspector Case drew deeply on his pipe and blew out tiny puffs of purple smoke.
‘Martian hashish,’ said Septimus Grey.
The chief inspector nodded.
As Lord Brentford could not nod at all, he just said, ‘Yes, ‘when asked.
‘Would you care to return to your home?’ asked the nurse, in that overloud and over-precise manner that those of the medical professions choose to employ upon the elderly and infirm.
Darwin nodded his head for the noble lord.
‘Aw,’ went the nurse. ‘Your little pet, bless him.’
Darwin bit the nurse, scaled the curtain, seated himself upon the pelmet and hurled down invective in fluent monkey.
The nurse howled loudly and under his bandages Lord Brentford managed a grin.
‘I’ll summon a doctor,’ said the nurse, ‘and have you discharged at once.
There were papers that had to be signed, medicines that had to be dispensed, much fussing that had to be done over the moving of Lord Brentford, much unnecessary bother, much fawning by staff who wished to curry favour with nobility. Much of much and so much more, but finally all done.
By four of the afternoon clock, his lordship had been carefully lowered onto many pillows in the rear of a new electric-wheeler. Darwin had been settled down beside him, with a box of pharmaceuticals to guard and the now-hated bedpan to watch over. Orders were given that the driver should proceed with care to Syon House.
The electric motor whirred and purred and off went Darwin with his bandaged master.
‘Master time,’ said Violet Wond, ‘and a man might be master of all.’
She and Ernest Rutherford were also being propelled by electrical energy aboard the New Electric Railway that ran from Victoria Station to Crystal Palace. The two sat in a first-class carriage, air-cooled and pleasing, watching the world through the plate-glass windows, speaking of this and that.
‘A Master of Time,’ said Ernest Rutherford, thoughtfully. ‘It does sound rather like something from a novel by Mr Wells.’
‘Would you not enjoy being masterful?’ Miss Wond’s voice took on a certain tone. It was a tone that Mr Rutherford found confusing. This woman’s talk was full of innuendo, yet there was something about her which said do not touch — and so forcibly, too, at times that it put a certain fear into Mr Ernest Rutherford. But there was something about her that fascinated Mr Rutherford, intrigued him, tantalised him. Mr Rutherford had, over the past year, been falling utterly in love with Violet Wond.
‘What might a man do,’ asked the smitten chemist, ‘if he was a Master of Time?’
‘He could right wrongs!’ said Miss Wond. ‘He could travel back into the past and put right things that had been made wrong.
‘Dear lady.’ Mr Rutherford gazed at the woman in black, gazed towards the heavy veil that smothered her face and hid what lay beneath from a world that would know only fear if it was revealed. ‘If I could, sweet lady, I would,’ said Ernest Rutherford.
‘We shall see what we shall see,’ said Violet Wond.
‘You see what I mean,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘A jolly fine mess it has made.’
‘A jolly fine mess,’ agreed Septimus Grey. ‘Whatever was this building that it tore down with such force?’
‘Something called a Bananary. Built by a lunatic recluse, apparently, who was in charge of Syon House until Lord Brentford returned as if from the dead to claim what is rightfully his.’
‘And I will wager he was not best pleased by the Bananary.’
‘Not best pleased at all.’ Chief Inspector Case puffed somewhat at his pipe. Red smoke fled its bowl and turned in spirals in the air of afternoon.
‘The wreckage of the spaceship,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It is the wreckage of a Martian spaceship, is it not?’
‘Very hard to tell,’ said Septimus Grey.
‘On the contrary,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Even in this pitiable state the contours are clearly visible. I was called here last night and arrived an hour after the crash, when the fire-fighters were still at work and the ambulance men were carting away Lord Brentford.’
‘It fell upon him, then?’ asked Septimus Grey.
‘Not as such. It crashed. He was furious as he was having a soirée in the hope of raising money for some Wonders of the Worlds project he has in mind. He fetched his shotgun, entered the wreck and let free both barrels at the pilot.’
‘Goodness me,’ said Septimus Grey.
‘His gunshots caused a bit of a ruckus in the mechanical gubbins of the spaceship and his lordship hadn’t got far before it exploded. Nearly had his bum blown off, apparently.’
Septimus Grey made a pained expression. ‘You have not, as yet, explained to me precisely what my involvement in this unfortunate incident might be.’
‘It is simplicity itself,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘A spaceship has crashed into the home of one of the Empire’s most notable members of the aristocracy. One whose mission, with his Wonders of the Worlds project, would appear to be a peacekeeping affair designed to bring accord amongst the planets.’
‘This much I know,’ said Septimus Grey.
‘Indeed you do,’ said Chief Inspector Case, ‘because I acquired a copy of the guest list when I arrived here last night. Your name is upon it. You were present last night when this occurred.’
‘I never said I was not,’ said Septimus Grey.
‘But you left swiftly enough after the crash — you had gone before I arrived.’
‘And so too had many others. I left as I feared for the safety of my daughter.’
Chief Inspector Case perused the guest list. ‘Your daughter is not listed here,’ he said.
‘She chooses to use her mother’s surname.
‘Ah, I see.’ The chief inspector sucked some more at his pipe. ‘I am a modest fellow, Mr Grey,’ he said. ‘I am not one for airs and graces. I doggedly follow clues. I work upon logic.’
‘And when all those fail you call upon the services of Mr Cameron Bell.’
‘Oh, harsh words,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘But I note well that you are clearly a gentleman who is “in the know”, so let us bandy no further words. Why was this deed done, Mr Grey? Why would you do such a thing?’
‘Me?’ said Mr Septimus Grey. ‘You are accusing me?’
‘As I told you, Mr Grey, I work in a dogged fashion. A spaceship crashes into a country house. Not an everyday occurrence, you will agree. But the thing about spaceships is that there are only a limited number of them, and each is registered. This craft here…’ Chief Inspector Case stepped carefully over banana skins and wreckage, took up something that he had discovered the previous night and carried it over to Septimus Grey, who stood looking very grumpy.
‘And what is that?’ asked the Governor of the Martian Territories.
‘This,’ said Chief Inspector Case, ‘is the nameplate of the crashed spaceship, dented but quite readable. Its name, as you see—’ he displayed this nameplate ‘—is the Marie Lloyd, a spaceship, Mr Septimus Grey, that is registered to you.
30
pon the cobbled landing strip of the Royal London Spaceport stood a single spaceship. It was a battered old Martian hulk and its name was the Marie Lloyd. It was, of course, the same Marie Lloyd that had crashed into the Bananary at Syon House on the previous evening. Although that Marie Lloyd had been converted into a time—ship and launched back into the past from a point five months in the future.
Proving how simple things can be when they are explained with precision.
The spaceport shuttle cart moved over the cobbled strip towards this spaceshi
p. Aboard were Mr Ernest Rutherford and Miss Violet Wond.
‘And you actually own this spaceship?’ asked the lovesick chemist. ‘You are the mistress of it, as it were?’
‘It was given to me as a present,’ said Miss Wond, ‘by an acquaintance, in return for services rendered.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Rutherford.
‘An acquaintance had wronged the gentleman who owned the spaceship. I set matters right.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Rutherford. But he did not understand. Miss Wond did have rather definite ideas regarding right and wrong. The chemist, who dreamed of her at night, felt that he truly had no wish ever to get upon her wrong side.
‘Might I ask,’ said Mr Rutherford, almost touching a silk-gloved hand, ‘regarding the special membrane and body-coverings that I formulated for you at your instruction — all is satisfactory there, I trust?’
‘The membrane functions perfectly,’ replied Miss Wond. ‘It negates gravity and allows the wearer to travel through the sky.’
Mr Rutherford clapped his hands together. ‘How very exciting that must be,’ he said.
‘I imagine so,’ said Miss Wond.
‘And the body-covering that makes one impervious to bullets?’
‘Perfect,’ said the lady all in black.
‘Splendid. Splendid. Splendid.’ The chemist patted the arm of Miss Wond. ‘Oh, do please pardon me,’ he said. ‘I got rather carried away there.’
‘It is of no consequence.
The shuttle cart drew up before the Marie Lloyd and Mr Rutherford stepped from it, extending a hand towards Miss Wond in the hope of helping her down.
The lady in black, however, leapt nimbly from the shuttle and dropped onto the cobbles several yards beyond.
‘Most athletic,’ said the chemist approvingly and, after dispensing coin to the shuttle’s driver, he followed the lady in black.
Things were suddenly looking black for Mr Septimus Grey. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked, for he was not without fight.
‘Questions will be asked,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Awkward questions. Most likely in the House of Commons and also the House of Lords. “How,” these questions might be put, “did a spaceship owned by Mr Septimus Grey, a man who was forced from his exalted position on Mars, come to crash into the house of a member of the aristocracy? Is this some act of revolutionary anarchism, perhaps?”‘
‘Stop right there!’ said Septimus Grey. ‘This does not make any sense at all.’
‘Oh, it will once I have tidied up all the loose ends,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘You would be surprised how good we hard-working and sadly underpaid detectives at Scotland Yard are at tying up loose ends into nice tidy bundles. Where even the most unlikely pieces of jigsaw can be made to fit.’
‘Rather too many metaphors there for my liking,’ said Septimus Grey, ‘but things are indeed becoming crystal clear. How much do you want for that nameplate there, Chief Inspector?’
‘This nameplate?’ asked the pride of Scotland Yard. ‘The very same. One hundred, two hundred pounds?’ ‘Did you say two hundred guineas?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘Guineas, then,’ said Mr Septimus Grey.
‘A little louder please,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘I punctured an eardrum swimming in the Thames as a boy.’
‘I will pay you two hundred guineas for that nameplate,’ shouted Septimus Grey.
‘Wonderful stuff,’ cried the chief inspector. And, ‘You are nicked, chummy,’ he also said. And, ‘Slap the handcuffs on him, lads,’ as well.
Septimus Grey gaped in horror as several young constables, with truncheons held aloft, leapt from hiding and placed him very firmly under arrest.
‘Try and bribe an officer of the law, would you?’ crowed Chief Inspector Case. ‘We’ll add that charge to the one of attempted murder by spaceship.’
‘Well done, sir,’ said a constable, striking down the Governor of the Martian Territories with his truncheon. ‘You certainly solved this one pretty smartish. If you will accept the compliments of myself and my fellow officers, you are a regular Cameron Bell.’
Cameron Bell was taking tea at the Ritz. No longer clad as a chef was Cameron Bell. In a suit of pale linen now sat the detective — a suit off-the-peg, it was true, but one that fitted well.
The beard had been shaved away by his favourite barber, giving him that baby-faced look that just-shaved men with hairless heads so easily carry off.
A young and inexperienced waiter who had welcomed him as Mr Pickwick and enquired after the health of Sam Weller[17] had been summarily cautioned. Tea was being served by a turbaned Sikh.
Mr Bell had before him the file from Scotland Yard. The big and bulging file with the name LADY RAYGUN printed large upon its cardboard cover. Mr Bell leafed through this file, whistling now and then as he did his leafing.
This woman had been most busy during the year that Mr Bell had spent boxed up in a cellar. The number of underworld figures that she had brought to justice was quite extraordinary. Although “brought to justice” was not a particularly accurate way of putting it — “brutally slaughtered” was more appropriate. She had methodically, coldly and dreadfully carved her way through London’s most dangerous criminals. Mr Bell was very much impressed.
He flicked back to the very first page of the file: the murder of Graham Tiberius Hill, Jack the Ripper as possibly was.
Then there had been a gap of ten years before she began once more her one-woman campaign of summary justice. And after she had dealt with the East End bare-knuckle fighter and the unconvicted poisoner who had threatened the life of Cameron Bell on the night of the British Show-men’s Fellowship awards dinner and dance, she had made a regular weekly sortie into the more dangerous areas of London to seek and destroy the villains lurking there.
And she had gone about it— ‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘In alphabetical order.’ He delved backwards and forwards through the assembled papers. She was methodically working her way through Scotland Yard’s filing system.
‘Someone on the inside, then,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
Inside the Marie Lloyd, Mr Ernest Rutherford seated himself on a comfortable cockpit couch. ‘Who will pilot this ship for us?’ he asked Miss Violet Wond.
Miss Wond was adjusting flyer’s goggles beneath her black veil. ‘I will fly the spaceship,’ she said. ‘Just tell me where to land.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘You will pilot the ship?’
‘Do you have any objections to that?’ Miss Wond took hold of the joystick.
‘None whatsoever, I suppose.
‘Then tell me where you wish me to fly this ship.’
‘It has to be dropped down into a siding on the Circle Line but it must be done at night, when no one will see it happen.’ Mr Rutherford mimed a tricky landing.
‘Then we have several hours that must be killed.’
‘I am sure there will be a Wiff-Waff table somewhere aboard, if you would care for a game.
‘I would care for a game indeed,’ said Violet Wond. ‘But not one of Wiff-Waff, I am thinking.’
‘I am thinking,’ Lord Brentford said to Darwin as the electric conveyance, moving in a gentle rhythm on its rubbered wheels, pressed on towards Syon House, ‘that I will soon be needing the bedpan again.’
Darwin the once-more-monkey-butler viewed his aristocratic employer. The sharing of lordly bananas he favoured, but not the business with the bedpans. He opened his mouth to remonstrate with Lord Brentford, but then thought better of it. He would keep the secret of his special gifts until some time that was suitable. The shock Lord Brentford might experience upon hearing his monkey butler reply to him in the Queen’s English could at this particular moment be too much for the broken, bandaged fellow spread out so helplessly upon his pile of pillows.
Darwin viewed the bedpan and then the injured lord. If duty called, then he would heed its calling.
Cameron Bell called presently for his bill. He
graciously paid it, took up the file and left the restaurant.
But he did not leave the Ritz. He entered the foyer and enquired at the reception as to whether any rooms were presently available. Upon learning that one was and that the price for the night was not above his purse, Mr Bell signed the register and was led to a splendid room.
‘I will seek more humble accommodation upon the morrow,’ said he as he blew into a speaking tube to order champagne from below. ‘But tonight a little indulgence, perhaps. A trip to the music hall. Some light entertainment. Things of a frivolous nature. Lady Raygun will not easily be brought to book. So tonight, as once more I am all myself, I shall enjoy the city I love, dear old London Town.’
At the Royal London Spaceport a single craft stood on the landing strip. Within this craft a couple embraced most passionately.
A gentleman’s fingers sought a corset’s fastenings. A lady’s felt for buttons to release.
Mr Ernest Rutherford had never made love in a spaceship before. He felt utterly confident, however, that he would thoroughly enjoy the experience.
Septimus Grey was not enjoying the experience of being forcibly detained in a Scotland Yard cell. He was bitterly bewailing his lot to a Gatherer of the Pure who had been incarcerated for seeking the pure of the Queen’s dogs at Windsor without the appropriate licence.
‘I will have my revenge!’ cried Septimus Grey. ‘And don’t think that I won’t.’
‘Damn and blast all coppers!’ said the Gatherer of the Pure, a big and burly fellow with a horrid broken nose. ‘Come the revolution we’ll have all their heads on the block.’
Septimus Grey kicked out at the door then hobbled about in pain.
‘You are a fine young gentleman,’ said the burly and broken-nosed one. ‘A very handsome fellow, it would appear.
Septimus Grey sank down on the only bed and rubbed at his damaged foot.