‘I could give that a little rub for you,’ said the unlicensed Gatherer. ‘What about a little kiss and a cuddle?’
Constables heard the shriekings of Septimus Grey. But they were very busy constables and so did not have time to go and see just what he was shrieking about.
In an unhallowed corner of Highgate Cemetery, something evil shrieked. It shrieked the barbarous names of those who never aloud should be called. And naked ladies danced by candlelight. Lavinia Dharkstorrm danced amongst them, mauve eyes glowing brightly in the gathering of night.
There appeared to be much of an erotic nature occurring upon this hot July evening in the year of eighteen ninety-nine.
Some of it joyful, some not, and some just plainly hideous.
31
ardinal Cox’s catamite had gone for a healthy swim in the Thames at Kew. The cardinal was knitting socks for soldiers of the Queen. He was making slow progress, though, as his most recent delivery of hashish had been of a particularly potent blend. Some of the socks had two foot-holes and others none at all. When a knock came at the door of his Bayswater dwelling, he gladly set his needles aside and called, ‘Please enter indeed, indeed.’
The door swung open, as doors will do, and in came Cameron Bell.
‘By the Lord, indeed indeed indeed,’ cried Cardinal Cox. ‘Cameron Bell, as I live and breathe and do much more besides.’
‘It has been a while,’ said Mr Bell.
‘A while, good Bell? It’s been a year — we thought a sorry end had come to you.
Cameron seated himself upon a Persian pouffe and viewed the cardinal’s handiwork. ‘I have been away upon business. Secret business. I have, however, been back for a month and thought I would look you up.
Cardinal Cox gazed up towards a calendar a-hanging on the wall. ‘‘Tis August, I see,’ he said. ‘Saint Artemus, patron saint of pantomime dames, is the saint of the month.’
‘Would not December be a more appropriate month for such a seasonal saint?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘You would think so,’ said the cardinal. ‘But who am I to fathom the vagaries of the calendar—maker’s craft?’
‘Who indeed,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Is this a sock or a hat for a three-eared donkey?’
‘That one is a hat,’ said Cardinal Cox. ‘But tell me, please, why are you here? Much as I do enjoy your visits, I tend to find our conversations a trifle one-sided, with you asking all the questions and me providing all the answers.
‘There will be no change today,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘No, I thought as much.’ The cardinal sighed. ‘There is, however, a great change coming, Mr Bell. There are signs and portents in the Heavens. The Astrological Columnist in The Times newspaper speaks of the End of Days. There is some alarm upon Venus, I understand — something to do with a planetary alignment that will occur at midnight upon the final day of this century. All the planets arranged in a single line pointing directly to the Sun. A once-in-a-million-years event, or so I am assured.’
Mr Bell picked up a sock of such gross deformity as to make him sick at heart. ‘When last we met,’ he said, ‘I was in possession of certain reliquaries.’
‘Three of the four,’ said Cardinal Cox. ‘I well remember that.’
‘And knowing well your sacred texts, you will therefore also be aware of what is prophesied to occur should all four reliquaries be brought together in an unhallowed place.’
Cardinal Cox made the sign of the cross, lifted his rosary to his lips and gave it a passionate kissing.
‘Should this blasphemy occur,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘what might we expect to experience?’
‘That evil would be set free upon the fields of Men.’ The man of God looked hard at the detective. ‘Am I to understand,’ he said, ‘that you have allowed this to occur? That the three reliquaries in your possession, under your care and protection, have been reunited with the fourth of their kind and conveyed to a place of unholiness?’ The cardinal’s voice had been rising in pitch and volume as his red face grew even redder and his eyes became most round.
‘Regrettably,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Regrettably, man? You will be the death of us all.’
‘Assuming,’ said Mr Bell, guardedly, ‘that these reliquaries are what they are purported to be and not merely some manufactured medieval fakes.’
Cardinal Cox was puffing and panting and looked upon the point of passing from consciousness. ‘They are real enough,’ he cried. ‘My God, man, what have you done?’
‘Please don’t rub it in,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Things have been difficult, to say the very least.’
‘Spaceships,’ said the cardinal, making the face of one who had been granted enlightenment. ‘As old Father Noah led two of every kind into the ark, so must we gather up likewise and load all into spaceships. Then, when the Time of Terrible Darkness comes, we can flee to the stars, seek out a new world and start all over again.’
‘I am sure that will not be necessary,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
‘Are you?’ asked the cardinal. ‘Well, that has set my mind at rest.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘I am joking!’ shouted Cardinal Cox. ‘Probably the last joke I will ever manage.’
‘It was not a very good one,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But, under the circumstances—’
‘We are all doomed!’ declared the cleric. ‘Bell has murdered Mankind!’
‘That’s quite enough of that,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Might I light for you a pipe of kiff? Its effects can be most calming.’
Cardinal Cox had no objection to that and looked on as the detective set about the business with a surprisingly practised hand.
‘Your Grace,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘A long time since anyone’s called me that.’ The cardinal folded his arms and made a huffy face.
‘Your Grace,’ said Cameron Bell once more, ‘I come to you because I believe you are the one man in London who can help me in this matter. Your erudition in such occult knowledge is well known to me.
‘You smarmy toad,’ said Cardinal Cox. ‘Hurry please with the pipe.’
Cameron Bell completed his narcotic labourings, lit the pipe, sucked upon its stem then passed it to Cardinal Cox.
‘I would know,’ said Mr Bell, ‘precisely what we might expect to happen if the worst was to occur.
The cardinal in crimson drew deeply on the pipe and plumes of smoke escaped his ears and nostrils. ‘The Seven Plagues, of course,’ said he. ‘The Seven Plagues of Egypt.’
‘Seven minutes in the pan, not six, not eight, but seven.’
Darwin the monkey butler licked his lips as Lord Brent-ford’s chef cooked up a banana fritter.
With the unexplained departure of the bald and bearded chef from the kitchen at Syon House, his lordship had been forced to hire another. Geraldo was a veritable wizard.
Although he hailed from the Isle of Wight, where he had been raised by kiwi birds,[18] he was master of most of the world’s cuisines and a chef of growing reputation who had already invented three new gateaux, two pork pies and a parsnip in a pantry.
And he harboured a deep love of monkeys, which suited Darwin well.
The banana fritter danced in the sizzling butter, and the smell alone had Darwin in a daze.
‘A dusting of cinnamon,’ sang Geraldo, ‘and a sprinkling of crisp cane sugar. Then hey jigger-jig.’ And he tossed the fitter onto a plate and presented it to Darwin.
Darwin’s eyes were wide and his mouth was smiling. He took up a knife and fork and— ‘Darwin!’ came a cry. ‘Come, Darwin, hurry.’
‘Aw.’ Geraldo snatched away the plate. ‘Lord Brentford calls. Perhaps another time.’
Darwin’s mouth was now wide open and he waved his knife and fork.
‘Come back tomorrow, perhaps,’ said the chef, lifting the fritter carefully, blowing upon it and popping it into his mouth. Then, ‘Mmph mm mm mph mmph,’ which, loosely translated meant, ‘And I will cook you another then
.’
Darwin watched in horror as the fritter vanished away.
His lordship cried his name once more and the monkey left the kitchen.
‘Ah, there you are, my boy.’ Lord Brentford was not quite so bandaged as he had been. His legs were still in plaster, though, and one arm in a sling, and there was a curious collar affair with much brass gubbinry holding the nobleman’s head in a fixed position.
He had attained a state of some mobility, however, inhabiting as he did a steam-powered bath-chair. Darwin’s duties in this regard extended to boiler-stoking, maintenance and very careful steering. Darwin greatly feared the steam-powered bath-chair.
There had been the occasional upset. The occasional piece of unpleasantness. There had even once been a hurling of faeces. Darwin and the bath-chair did not get along.
‘Time for a morning snifter, Darwin,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Be so good as to fix me a gin and tonic.’
As Darwin sloped off to the drinks cabinet, the bath-chair backfired noisily and Darwin jumped in the air.
Chief Inspector Case was taking the air in the company of Mr Septimus Grey. The erstwhile Governor of the Martian Territories had lately been released from Wormwood Scrubs through the intercession of Chief Inspector Case.
‘There will be Hell to pay for all this,’ said Mr Septimus Grey. He was a man most put upon, it appeared. A man who had lost a certain something. A man who had experienced things that he dearly wished to forget.
‘I have gone to a great deal of trouble on your behalf’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘I hope you appreciate this.’
‘But it was you who had me convicted on trumped-up charges.’
‘Hardly trumped-up,’ the chief inspector replied. ‘You are the owner of the Marie Lloyd and you did try to bribe an officer of the law.’
‘I am not the owner of the Marie Lloyd.’ Septimus Grey made fists and waved them about. ‘I gave this evidence under oath in court. I gave the Marie Lloyd to a certain Miss Violet Wond. What she chose to do with it I neither know nor care.
‘And herein lies great interest,’ said Chief Inspector Case.
‘The jury found against you because no trace could be uncovered of anyone by the unlikely name of Violet Wond.’
‘Unlikely?’ asked Septimus Grey.
‘Never mind. You were sentenced to six months for careless driving and being drunk in charge of a spaceship.’
‘Ludicrous,’ said Septimus Grey. ‘All ludicrous.’
‘All ludicrous indeed,’ agreed the chief inspector, ‘because by diligent police work I uncovered something most curious. The Marie Lloyd docked at the Royal London Spaceport upon the day of Lord Brentford’s party. The supposition would be that it was then flown to Syon House and there crash—landed.’
‘And?’ asked Mr Septimus Grey.
‘Well, clearly this was not the case for according to the flight logs at the Royal London Spaceport, the Marie Lloyd was still standing on the landing strip in plain sight at the time it was doing its crashing.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Septimus Grey.
‘Nor me. But apparently the Marie Lloyd took off from the spaceport the following evening. A woman in a black veil boarded her in the company of a well-dressed gentleman.’
‘A black veil?’ said Septimus Grey. ‘That thoroughly hid her face?’
‘Such was the description given. In order to gain access to the spaceship, she of course had to display documents of authority.’
‘It was her, was it not?’ cried Septimus Grey.
‘Miss Violet Wond,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘How can the Marie Lloyd crash into an English country house one evening and then take off from the spaceport quite unscathed upon the next?’
‘I am most confused,’ said Septimus Grey.
‘Confusion! Ruination! And damnation!’ cried Cardinal Cox.
‘Would those be three of the Seven Plagues?’ asked Mr Cameron Bell.
‘Not as such,’ said Cardinal Cox, drawing very deeply on his pipe. ‘But all will be included when the Terrible Darkness falls.’
Cameron Bell sniffed at the smoke. ‘Might I have a little puff of that?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not!’ said Cardinal Cox. ‘You are an iconoclast.’
‘Speak to me of these plagues,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘The scriptures differ regarding this. Some say ten plagues, others merely seven. Seven is the accepted figure, particularly when relating to the End of Days. They run as follows —‘A plague of Blood. ‘A plague of Frogs. ‘A plague of Lice. ‘A plague of Flies, or Wild Animals. ‘A great Pestilence. ‘The Time of Terrible Darkness. ‘The Death of the First-Born. ‘‘All very grim,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Let us hope very much that none of these come to be.’
‘Oh, they’ll come to be!’ shouted Cardinal Cox. ‘They will come to be.’
‘Which is why I am here,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘to ask for your help and advice.’
‘Spaceships would be my advice.’ The cardinal hunched his shoulders. ‘Spaceships, you blackguard, spaceships.’
‘And that is all you can offer?’
‘What more can there be? If the Seven Plagues come upon us, no one on Earth will be spared.’
‘Then let us hope for all of our sakes that they do not. ‘Cameron Bell rose from the Persian pouffe. ‘I am sorry if I have been the bearer of bad tidings,’ he said, ‘but I remain confident that all will be well in the end.’
Mr Bell might well have had further platitudes to offer had not his flow been interrupted by a sudden commotion.
Cardinal Cox’s catamite burst through the doorway and flung himself into the room. He was all in a terrible state, be-gored from his head to his toes.
‘Sweet baby Jesus on the cross or otherwise.’ Cardinal Cox caught the catamite, who fell in a horrible heap upon his lap.
‘My boy!’ cried the cardinal. ‘My dear boy. Who has done this terrible thing to you?’
‘No man,’ the catamite blubbered. ‘But we were having a swim in the Thames at Kew for the good of our health, we were.’
‘And were you struck by a steam launch or some such?’ asked Mr Cameron Bell.
‘No, sir,’ moaned the catamite. ‘One moment all was well and good, the next the River Thames had turned to blood.’
32
ed ran the Thames beyond the gates of Syon. Within the great house, Darwin poured a gin and tonic for his bandaged master.
‘Well done there, my boy.’ Lord Brentford accepted the glass in his serviceable hand and toasted Darwin with it. ‘Now steer me out the back and into the grounds.’
Darwin mounted to the rear of the steam-driven bath-chair and gingerly tweaked a lever or two. The thing took off as a bath-chair possessed. Darwin ground his teeth.
‘Slow down, boy!’ called Lord Brentford. Darwin struggled and finally took control.
In a manner most sedate they moved along the high-windowed gallery that led to where the Bananary had been.
‘Must say you look very smart today.’ Lord Brentford took a glance into the wing-mirror. ‘Those weird clothes in the wardrobes upstairs appear to fit you very well.’
Darwin turned his eyes towards the ceiling. Exactly why it was that Lord Brentford had failed to recall that he had willed Syon House to Darwin in the first place was anyone’s guess. And how, upon returning, as from the dead, to discover the Bananary, the banana groves and the wardrobes filled with clothes that could only be worn by a monkey, he still had not reasoned it out was anyone’s guess also. And the fact that he had totally failed to recognise Darwin until the ape had visited him in his hospital room was ludicrous at best. None of this made the vaguest sense to the monkey butler. Although, so his reasoning went, Lord Brentford was a member of the aristocracy and as such did not think quite the same way that other men were wont to think.
Darwin today wore a grey silk morning suit with matching top hat and gloves. He really was a very dapper Darwin.
‘Steer me outside, if you will.’
r /> As the double doors were open, Darwin steered Lord Brentford out from the house and onto the flat foundation area where the Bananary had until so recently been standing.
Naught was there now to be seen of the architectural anomaly, naught either of the twisted wreckage of the Marie Lloyd.
‘At least they’ve done a decent job clearing up,’ Lord Brentford observed. ‘If I ever catch the scoundrel who built that atrocity…’
Darwin wore a downcast face. He had really truly loved that Bananary and considered it to have been a thing of rare beauty.
Certainly he had been aware that the artisans he had employed to erect it had built it upside down, but that, if anything, had enhanced its beauty rather than detracted from it.
Well, in Darwin’s opinion, anyway.
‘Do you know who’s coming to visit today?’ asked Lord Brentford of his ape.
Darwin shook his hatted head.
‘The Queen of England,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘What do you say to that?’
Darwin could have had plenty to say, but instead he made oo-oo-ooh-ing sounds indicative of delight.
‘Quite so. And she’s bringing a cabinet minister and that young Mr Churchill. It will be quite a lunch. And you will have the honour of serving at table.’
Darwin had mixed feelings regarding this, for he was still torn by the matter of Man’s inhumanity to Monkey. But the thing was he did so enjoy his role in Lord Brentford’s household. And to serve Victoria, Empress of both India and Mars, was an honour, of that there could be no doubt.
Darwin did further oo-oo-ooh-ings to signify that he was pleased with this.
‘Much to discuss over lunch,’ said his lordship. ‘And as it is such a fine sunny day, I think we’ll take it al fresco.’
Birds sang merrily in the trees and beyond the garden’s high stone walls the River Thames ran red.
It created a most startling appearance and had halted all traffic on London’s many bridges.
Opinions were various and many.
‘It is caused by the rich red ochre of the soil in the Indus Valley,’ announced a gentleman of advanced years who knew little of geography.