Willing waiters lifted Lord Brentford from the hansom cab and conveyed him to the seat he had reserved.
‘I am sure you have no objection to standing while you eat,’ said his lordship to Darwin. ‘Pretty swank affair, this —seats are hard to come by.’
And indeed it was a pretty swank affair. The literati and glitterati and indeed the obiterati were all well represented here this lunchtime. On behalf of the literati, Lord Brentford drew Darwin’s attention to Mr Oscar Wilde, who sat sharing a milkshake with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The glitterati glittered as they should. There was Dame Nellie Melba and there too Little Tich and several other stars of the music hall. And all were setting about their tucker in a most poetic manner:
Sammy ‘Sherbert’ Schwartscof sucked a stripy sweet.
Freddie ‘Fat Boy’ Firkin favoured fowls.
When it came to pudding, Birdie Pinkerton could claim
That he ate it while impersonating owls.
Of the obiterati only one was present today: the late great Duke of Wellington. Looking pale, but interesting.
‘Tuck in me napkin, do,’ said Lord Brentford to his monkey butler.
Darwin climbed onto the table and attended to the lord.
‘Would sir care to see the wine list?’ asked a liveried waiter.
‘Just bring me a bottle of Château Doveston,’ said his lordship, ‘and squawk!’
‘I don’t think we have squawk on the wine list, your lordship.’
‘It’s not a damn drink,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘It was a damn squawk — damn monkey butler’s tucked me napkin in too tight.’
Darwin scuttled smartly from the table.
‘Dining with a lady today,’ said Lord Brentford, ‘so bring two glasses.’
Darwin made a hopeful face and tugged at his master’s leg.
‘And a bowl of water for the ape.’
Cutlery clattered and toothsome viands were munched upon with relish. The setting was of the modernistic persuasion, with the very latest thing in red flocked wallpaper, neon strip-lighting and Bakelite chairs that grated musically upon the pink linoleum floor. It was chic beyond chic and they even served Treacle Sponge Bastard.
Leah the Venusian entered the eatery. Ravishing in high-heeled shoes, with high cheekbones and high-plumed hair, she had the heads of high-born fellows turning.
Lord Brentford greeted her with much enthusiasm. ‘So happy to see you, most beautiful lady,’ he gushed. ‘So sorry about all the misunderstandings yesterday at my luncheon. No hard feelings upon the part of your companion, I trust.’
Three waiters aided Leah into her seat, then began to fuss at her with napkins.
‘Sling your hooks, waiters!’ bawled Lord Brentford. ‘Trying to have a bally conversation here, don’cha know.’
Darwin grinned. He actually quite liked to watch Lord Brentford throwing his weight around and bullying the menials. Why? Darwin shrugged. He did not know, but still it made him smile.
The waiters departed. Then returned in the company of the waiter who was bringing the champagne. Lord Brentford shooed the lot of them away and called upon Darwin to open and pour out the bubbly.
Darwin willingly obliged and sneaked a glass for himself Lord Brentford took his in his good hand and toasted the delightful Leah.
‘My dear lady,’ said he in a confidential tone, ‘I really am so glad that you chose to dine with me this lunchtime. Terribly embarrassed about yesterday and everything. Especially in front of Her Majesty. I consider it all Sir Peter Harrow’s fault. Man’s a scoundrel, should have seen it from the first.’
‘It is of no consequence,’ said Leah, tasting champagne. ‘And regarding my companion, he underwent rigorous purgations to repurify himself. He has had his skin scoured and powerful laxatives—’
‘Well,’ went Lord Brentford, humming and hah-ing, ‘let us not dwell upon such a personal matter. Do you find the champagne palatable?’
Leah nodded, her golden eyes fixed upon his lordship. Lesser men might well have wilted, but Lord Brentford was the son of sterling noble stock. ‘It is a delicate matter, ‘he said, ‘that I wish to broach. You see, yesterday at the luncheon table, your companion caused certain events to occur.
Leah’s gaze remained unfaltering.
‘The fire,’ said Lord Brentford, ‘that fell from the Heavens. Narrowly missing Sir Peter Harrow but playing merry havoc with my table decorations.’
‘It was a regrettable occurrence,’ said Leah.
‘It wasn’t a bad shot,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘It only just missed him.’
‘Regrettable,’ said Leah, ‘as it is against interplanetary agreement for Venusians to practise magic on Earth.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Darwin,’ he called to his ape, ‘top up the lady’s glass, if you will.’
Darwin hastened to oblige and also topped up his own.
‘It is forbidden,’ said Leah. ‘My companion will be punished for his undisciplined behaviour — fifty strokes of the Poomdanger’s Pizzle, followed by—’
‘I do not wish to know,’ said his lordship, who knew nothing of Poomdangers, but having served in the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers was no stranger to a flogging with a pizzle. ‘Never seen such stuff myself before,’ said his lordship, placing his empty glass before him. ‘Fire falling out of an empty sky. Most impressive.’
The golden eyes were focused on Lord Brentford.
‘Question is,’ said he, ‘what would it take to persuade you to teach me a trick or two like that?’
‘Trick?’ said Leah.
‘And a damn fine one, too. Would certainly put the wind up the chaps at the Explorers’ Club if I knew how to do it.’
Leah stared hard at Lord Brentford. ‘I think you fail to understand,’ she said. ‘These are neither parlour tricks nor stage illusions as might be displayed before an audience at the Electric Alhambra. This is magic of the purest kind. This is genuine magic.’
‘Genuine magic, you say?’ Lord Brentford rattled his glass on the table and Darwin swiftly refilled it. ‘Genuine magic?’
‘How can you doubt it?’ asked Leah. ‘Interplanetary treaties have been drawn up regarding it. Laws passed.’
‘Hmph,’ went his lordship. ‘Well, I have been away for a couple of years. Airship crash. Stuck on cannibal island. Long story, won’t bore you with it here.’
‘It is genuine magic,’ said Leah.
‘Is it, by Jingo?’ his lordship said.
Presently meals were ordered, and further champagne. Mr Patrick, the suave and debonair proprietor of the establishment, even happened by to offer a rose to Leah and present her with a voucher which enabled her to eat for half the price on Monday evenings.
By the serving of the Treacle Sponge Bastard, Lord Brent-ford was somewhat into his cups. As was Darwin, who now could see two Lord Brentford’s and an infinite number of Leahs.
Which set him to wondering whether an infinite number of Shakespeares might be able to write a really good monkey.
‘So, would you teach me?’ asked Lord Brentford, swaying in his chair. ‘A little piece of genuine magic. I promise that I’d only use it for good.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Leah. ‘It is quite forbidden.’
‘But if it is genuine,’ said Lord Brentford, within whose head many ideas were now percolating, ‘then it is right and proper that you share it.’
‘No,‘ said Leah. ‘It cannot be done.’
‘For the sake of peace,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘I am a man of peace, you know this.’
‘I do,’ said Leah. ‘We Venusians are gifted with an ability to discern character. Yours, although severely flawed in many areas, is intrinsically good.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. And if I might be permitted to offer you one, might I say that you are the most fascinating creature that it has ever been my honour to dine with.’
‘I am flattered,’ said Leah, and a flash of pink came to her ivory
cheeks.
‘Pity, though,’ said his lordship, ‘about the magic. The Empire and the Crown have enemies, you know, upon this planet and possibly upon others. If there was a magical spell which, say, could protect our dear Victoria from harm, as a loyal subject I would do all in my power to gain the knowledge of it. I know I probably appear a bluff kind of body, but I care. I really do care. Know it’s not perhaps a manly thing to say, but I do care, yes, I do indeed.’
Leah looked thoughtfully upon Lord Brentford. ‘I do believe you to be sincere,’ she said, ‘but it is forbidden.’
‘And I would not wish to get you into any trouble. Nor wish to see the pizzle inflicted upon you, or any of that frightful stuff.’
‘I know,’ said Leah. And she stared long and hard at her host. ‘Perhaps,’ she said slowly, ‘something might be arranged. Something of a secret nature.’
‘Really?’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Well—’
‘No one must ever know. I might teach you certain things, certain minor cantrips and invocations.’
‘Really?’ said Lord Brentford once more.
‘Absolute secrecy.’ Leah took up her champagne glass, her golden eyes reflected in the golden sparkled liquid. ‘It would mean death for me if I were discovered.’
‘Then it is out of the question,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Please forget that I ever broached the subject.’
‘And that is the only answer I could have hoped for.’ Leah smiled at his lordship. ‘I am considered by my parents to be somewhat irresponsible and skittish, for I hold to opinions that are not strictly to their liking. One of these opinions is that magic is a universal force that can benefit all if used correctly. I will school you in the thaumaturgical arts, Lord Brentford, for I know that you will use them wisely.’
‘Well,’ said his lordship. ‘Wasn’t expecting that. Don’t know quite what to say.
‘What is your Christian name, Lord Brentford?’
‘Albert,’ said his lordship. ‘But folk who are close call me Berty.’
‘Well, Berty,’ said Leah, reaching forward to touch her glass to his, ‘you can say thank you to me, if you will.’
‘Thank you, Leah,’ said the lord called Berty. ‘Thank you, beautiful lady, very much indeed.’
Although history would never record it, this intimate agreement between two beings born upon separate worlds would set in motion a series of events that would culminate in an event of such cosmic significance as to be considered by most historians, had they known of it, the very turning point of humanity.
Berty and Leah gazed at each other and shared a moment of magic.
Not so Darwin, however, who lay in a drunken stupor on the floor.
36
avinia Dharkstorrm was never far from the thoughts of Cameron Bell. All lines of investigation had brought the great detective to one dead end or another. The evil witch was nowhere to be found. It was possible, of course, that she had gone off-world, to Mars perhaps, or even Jupiter. Mr Bell had no wish at all to return to Mars and he knew little or nothing about Jupiter.
‘Why cannot things just be the way they were?’ asked Cameron Bell of himself ‘I recall a time when a criminal was a criminal and not some sorceress casting spells and making life so difficult. This magic business has me most perplexed.’
Ernest Rutherford was perplexed as he gaped aghast at chickens.
‘So many chickens,’ he said to Lord Babbage, ‘and all of them making a frightful mess of the five-star dressing room.
‘We didn’t know where else to put them,’ said Lord Nikola Tesla. ‘This is the only dressing room with a lock on the door.’
Ernest Rutherford drew the door closed as chickens, sensing a chance for escape, came about him in a clucking horde.
‘There is one thing that strikes me,’ said the chemist, ‘and I assume that it has struck you, too.’
‘The similarity between them?’ asked Lord Babbage. Mr Rutherford nodded. ‘They appear to be identical,’ he said. ‘See the spot on the left wing there — they all have it, do they not?’
The pair of scientific lordships nodded harmoniously. ‘Which leads me to a conclusion,’ said the tall one with the shock of hair.
‘And what is that, Lord Tesla?’ asked the chemist.
‘Either that they are all very closely related. Or—’ And here Lord Tesla paused. ‘That they are all, in fact, the same chicken.’
‘What of this?’ asked Mr Ernest Rutherford. ‘Some temporal anomaly,’ said Lord Tesla, ‘some singularity created by the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter that reproduces with exactitude the self-same chicken again and again and again no matter what time we set upon our controls.’
Ernest Rutherford scratched at his head. Lord Babbage shrugged at his shoulders.
Miss Violet Wond said, ‘There might be another answer. Ernest Rutherford glanced towards the lady in the veil. ‘That before eighteen twenty,’ said Miss Violet Wond, ‘nothing existed but chicken. That chicken there.’ And she pointed. ‘And all these other chickens, too. They are all one and nothing existed before them.’
Darwin the monkey butler was perplexed. Although, had he been present at the Victoria Palace Theatre, he might well have heeded the words of Miss Violet Wond. Because, after all, he had been told about the Chicken Theory years before by that big black cockerel Junior. But it was only a theory and one articulated by a chicken! And Darwin greatly preferred the one put forward by his namesake, that Mankind was descended from monkeys. That sounded to him a much better theory.
The perplexity that Darwin was presently experiencing was not in any way connected with chickens.
It was connected with magic.
‘Come on in, boy, don’t be shy,’ Lord Brentford said. Out of his bath-chair and on crutches now, but still in need of Darwin’s help when it came to the terrible bedpan. ‘Need your assistance, hurry, do.’
Darwin entered the study of Lord Brentford, which had undergone some recent and drastic redecoration. All the furniture, paintings and precious carpets had been removed. The walls, floor and ceiling had been painted the deepest of blues and curious white sigils had been inscribed upon the floor, including a great pentacle, and a candle burned on what appeared to be some kind of altar. The smell of incense cloaked the air. There was a certain atmosphere and Darwin did not like it.
Darwin looked up at Lord Brentford. He wore a long white robe that put the monkey butler in mind of a nightshirt.
‘You recall this enchanting lady from the other week at the chicken restaurant, do you not?’
Lord Brentford directed Darwin’s gaze to Leah the Venusian.
The lady of another world turned golden eyes upon him.
The look of those eyes made Darwin giddy, so he looked hurriedly away.
‘Going to conduct a little experiment,’ said Lord Brent-ford to his monkey butler. ‘All very hush-hush. Don’t wish to get any of the other staff involved. Know you won’t go blabbering about it to anyone, eh?’
Darwin said nothing and wondered, in fact, when was the last time he had spoken. More than six weeks ago, when he had said his farewells to Mr Cameron Bell.
Darwin looked up once more at Lord Brentford.
‘Going to engage in a bit of magic,’ said his lordship. ‘That will be exciting for you, won’t it, Darwin?’
Darwin shook his head with vigour and made grumbling sounds.
‘Wonderful, isn’t he?’ said Lord Brentford to Leah. ‘It’s as if he understands every word I say.’
Leah nodded, smiling as she did so.
‘Going to speak a few words that I’ve been taught by the lovely lady here,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Well, chant them, really. So you just be a good boy and stand there and we’ll see what we shall see.
Darwin shuffled uneasily. He wore today a rather dashing military ensemble — bright red jacket, khaki jodhpurs, high black riding boots. When a monkey of substance, he had never skimped at his tailor’s.
‘Right, then,’ sa
id Lord Brentford, drawing breath. And then he called aloud a vocal evocation in a tongue that was queer to Darwin.
‘Once more, Berty,’ said Leah. ‘And try not to contract the vowels. Go on.’
Lord Brentford shouted out the words with vigour.
Darwin blinked and then felt suddenly strange.
There was something most definitely going on with his lower regions. A certain numbness, a lightness of limb.
Then—
‘Ooooooooooooooooh!’ wailed Darwin as he was swept from his feet, borne upward on invisible wings and flattened against the ceiling.
Cameron Bell lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. A ceiling far too close, in his opinion. The sloping ceiling of the tiny garret room he now inhabited. Once he had owned a beautiful house, and later a beautiful office, but now he had been reduced to this? A cockroach crossed the linoleum floor, its legs most loudly clicking. It vanished into a mouse hole from which issued the sounds of a fight.
Cameron Bell rolled a cigarette. Once he had smoked the finest cigars. And drunk the finest champagne. This was a very sorry end to a fine career. Mr Bell lit his cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling. He had an appointment shortly with Chief Inspector Case and he knew full well why that was.
He had been scraping this meagre existence at the expense of the Metropolitan Police Force with funds from the petty-cash box of the chief inspector. But as Mr Bell had nothing to show, even this pittance would soon be withdrawn.
‘There has to be an answer to this,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘If I could bring Lady Raygun to justice, that would impress the chief inspector. If I could recover the stolen reliquaries, I could claim the rewards outstanding upon them and engage in a far better style of life. And avert the End Times, which is frankly no small matter and one that I find most troubling. But it has all become so desperately difficult that—’
And here Mr Cameron Bell ended his heartfelt soliloquy, for a thought had suddenly struck him, a thought that expanded all but instantaneously into a supposition and thence into a proposition encompassing a plan of campaign which found much charm with Mr Cameron Bell.