‘Ee-oop, chuck,’ said Princess Pamela. ‘Does wee porky lad be givin’ us bother?’
They stood within the Palace of Magic, these evil ladies, studying the image of Cameron Bell, which swam in a silver scrying bowl filled to the brim with dark liquid. Lavinia Dharkstorrm passed long fingers over the surface of this liquid and Mr Bell’s image dissolved.
‘He is dangerous,’ she said to her mistress. ‘And I remain puzzled as to how he was raised from the zombified stupor I placed him in. But I perceive glimpses of the future and he will not enter this temple tonight.’
‘Then ‘appen ‘e’ll just stand there in the dark.’ The pinky princess chuckled. ‘Where’s Crowley? I want me supper.
‘Slunk away to some brothel, I expect.’ Lavinia Dharkstorrm sat herself down in Aleister Crowley’s loveseat.
The room was as grim as might be reasonably expected, walls, floor and ceiling all painted the blackest of blacks, the walls relieved here and there by flashes of garish colour, these provided by Crowley’s fanciful paintings. Most involved copulation in one extreme form or another, although there was a rather fetching still life entitled Plums Upon a Paisley hanging above a cabinet containing mummified toads. A human skeleton maintained a lonely vigil in one corner, and a pair of stuffed kiwi birds imaginatively mounted in the position known as ‘taking tea with the parson’ lurked in another. Instruments of torture hung above the fireplace. Crowley’s book collection was piled all around and about.
The walls owned to no windows. Moonlight entered with trepidation through skylights high above.
‘Thou’ll ‘ave t’ kill that little baldy man,’ said Princess Pamela of Cameron Bell. ‘Now ‘ee knows of thy whereabouts, ‘e’ll make a right nuisance, mark my words and trip me over backwards if he d’n’t.’
‘All in good time,’ said Lavinia Dharkstorrm.
‘Don’t all in good time me, my lovely! Thou shouldst hath killed ‘im when thou hadst the chance. But thou got all clever with it and put ‘im in a trance. Kill ‘im now and bring ‘im ‘ere — we’ll cook ‘im up for supper.’
Cameron Bell felt hungry. A very late supper would have suited him well. He brought out his pocket watch and held it up so street light fell upon it. It was nearing twelve-thirty. Perhaps he had made a mistake. Perhaps Lady Raygun would not appear.
‘A most expensive mistake if she does not,’ whispered Mr Bell. ‘And I do not want to go through all of this again tomorrow night.’
And then he saw her, high in the sky. A glimmer of transparent membrane, rainbow-hued as oil upon water, surrounding the woman with the tightly fitting rubber headpiece and the corset of brass. She swung about and spiralled down, then came to rest in perfect silence upon the roof of the sinister Palace of Magic.
Within the black-walled sitting room, Lavinia Dharkstorrm stirred the liquid in the silver scrying bowl with the leg bone of a child.
‘Look-see,’ she said to the princess in pink. ‘The little man is leaving.’
And indeed Mr Bell was. If he had learned one lesson when encountering Lavinia Dharkstorrm, it was this: when dealing with an adversary who is capable of foretelling what you will do next, it is always better to appear to be doing something other than you actually are. Which was probably far easier to say than to do.
Or otherwise.
Mr Bell returned to the electric-wheeler, awakened the driver, who was having a little nap, and settled himself once more in a passenger seat.
‘Home is it, then, guv’nor?’ enquired the driver, hope very high in his voice.
Cameron Bell fished out a cigar and lit it. ‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘And please be ready to depart when I give the word — there may be a little following to do. However, first I would like you to drive to Sloane Square and then turn around and drive back.’
The driver sighed. ‘Whatever you say,’ said he.
‘And off he goes,’ said Lavinia Dharkstorrm. ‘Home to his cosy bed.’
‘Thou knowest what that means?’ said Princess Pamela.
Lavinia Dharkstorrm shook her head.
‘Means as wee man’s gone, thou’ll ‘ave to cook me some supper.
‘Beans on toast?’ asked Lavinia Dharkstorrm. Then all manner of things occurred in a great and terrible rush.
There came a dazzling flash as of lightning and a dreadful shattering of glass. Then something smashed down into the living room. Furniture tumbled and paintings fell from the wall.
Lavinia Dharkstorrm opened her mouth but found a firm hand clasped across it.
And the feel of cold steel pressing against her left temple.
A voice whispered softly in Miss Dharkstorrm’s ear.
‘Remember me, sister?’ it said.
48
eturning to the corner of Eaton Place, Mr Bell puffed away at his cigar and awaited developments.
He yawned and called up to the driver. ‘From where you are sitting, can you see the coach house next to the building that bears the sign that reads “the Palace of Magic”?’ he asked.
‘I can,’ the driver replied.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bell, ‘shortly a black landau drawn by two black horses will issue from there at speed. When it passes us by, I wish you to follow it.’
‘It might not come this way, though,’ said the driver. ‘What if it were to turn left instead of right when it leaves the coach house? It could then take the first right into Eaton Square, or the next left into West Eaton Place, or indeed carry on to the bottom then swing right into Chesham Street.’
For the driver had done the Knowledge.
‘The landau will not go that way,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘No offence, sir, but you sound very sure of yourself’
‘There is a post-box on the corner of Eaton Square where it meets Eaton Place,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘I have no doubt that there is, sir,’ said the driver.
Cameron Bell removed from his pocket a slim brass contrivance with an extendable metal rod. A slim brass contrivance that was something of a favourite with him.
The boy who had delivered the music hall ticket to Aleister Crowley had also popped a certain package into the post-box.
Mr Bell’s thumb hovered above the FIRE button on the contrivance.
Lady Raygun’s thumb and fingers pressed very hard at Lavinia Dharkstorrm’s face.
‘Ooo the ‘ell art thou?’ roared Princess Pamela. ‘Do you not recognise me, headmistress?’ Lady Raygun said.
‘Take off thy ‘orrid mask and let me see.
Lady Raygun shook her head. ‘My sister knows who I am.
‘You!’ Princess Pamela raised a manicured eyebrow. ‘Little Violet. We all thought you were dead.’
‘How well you lie,’ said Lady Raygun. ‘You did this evil thing to me, you and my own sister. Had me altered, turned into a weapon — an assassin to destroy your enemies.’
‘And well thou art doing, lass. I’ve read of thy exploits in the penny dreadful. Should’ve put two ‘n’ two together, I suppose.
‘Grmmph mmmph,’ went Lavinia Dharkstorrm.
‘Thou art suffocating my servant,’ said Princess Pamela. ‘Give ‘er air and we’ll ‘ave a cosy chat.’
Lady Raygun loosened her grip but slightly and said, ‘She will die most painfully. As indeed will you.
Princess Pamela laughed somewhat at this. ‘ ‘Appen, chuck,’ said she, ‘that matters might be no’ so easy.
And she turned to take her leave.
The silver hand weapon spat electrical fire across the room.
Princess Pamela waved the flames away.
‘Farewell to thee,’ she said. ‘And dear Lavinia, best be free as a bird.’
There was a ripple in the air. A troubling of the aether. And Lady Raygun no longer held the head of Lavinia Dharkstorrm. Instead there was an eagle where the evil woman had been.
The eagle was upon her, all beak and ripping talons. The lady fired her ray gun, again and again and again.
C
ameron’s thumb was on the firing button.
‘Doors of the coach house are opening,’ said the driver. Cameron’s thumb did hoverings.
‘And the landau’s coming out—’ The thumb edged closer to the FIRE button. ‘And they’re turning—’ Thumb-button-thumb-button— ‘Wait for it—’ Button-thumb-button-thumb— ‘Left!’
Button down and— Nothing.
Cameron pressed his thumb down again and again. And was rewarded by …
A mighteous explosion.
The post-box erupted. The landau’s horses reared. The landau all but overturned.
But did not.
It swung about in the narrow street and plunged towards the King’s Road.
On high, within the Palace of Magic, Lavinia Dharkstorrm, now in the shape of a lion, leapt at Lady Raygun.
‘Here they come, sir,’ said the driver of the electric—wheeler, putting the motor into gear. ‘And crikey!’ he cried as the landau rushed by. ‘There’s no one driving that thing.’
And indeed there was not.
A princess in pink lazed back amongst cushions, upon her lap an oversized reticule.
‘She has the reliquaries!’ cried Cameron Bell. ‘After her, man. There’s a guinea in it for you if you can drive her off the road.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ said the driver.
And the chase was on.
The well-to-do of Eaton Place were throwing up their windows.
A house that had once been handy for the post-box was now very much on fire.
And flames were rising too from the Palace of Magic, as terrible growls and awful screams echoed from within.
Cameron Bell had discarded his cigar and replaced his brass contrivance in his pocket. He now took to rolling up his right trouser leg.
‘Faster, man, faster,’ he called to the driver as he tinkered at his leg.
It was not a weapon he’d actually tested before. It came in several sections that had to be screwed together. Mr Bell had taped these to his legs, as carrying such a very large ray gun into the Electric Alhambra would have been frowned upon by the management.
‘Those horses are going like the very Devil,’ shouted the driver as he swung the vehicle upon two wheels as it went around Sloane Square. ‘But we’ll ‘ave ‘em, sir, you fear not.’
Cameron Bell was now all over the floor. But he struggled to free further parts of his great big weapon.
It was a pleasant, fragrant night with a gorgeous star-filled sky and it put Mr Bell in mind of another bit of following he had done more than a year before. When he had pursued Lavinia Dharkstorrm to that high, narrow house in the little square between the Temple and St Bride’s, where she had quite outfoxed him.
That was the night that he had first encountered Lady Raygun.
Within the Palace of Magic, a mighty battle raged. Lavinia Dharkstorrm changed her shape from beast to bird to beastly thing and each was met by a furious force in the shape of Lady Raygun.
The driverless landau raced ahead, negotiating tricky street corners, swerving to avoid oncoming vehicles, striking down the occasional cycling cleric, cracking on at a truly furious pace.
The driver of the electric—wheeler said, ‘My motor’s overheating.’
‘I will buy you a new one.’ Cameron Bell was upside down, but the ray gun was nearly assembled.
It was a Ferris Firestorm Nineteen—Hundred Series, the very latest thing for big-game hunting. Although to a degree somewhat impractical for this purpose, as one blast at an elephant would tend to reduce said pachyderm to little more than four umbrella stands and a flywhisk.
‘The landau’s heading for Chelsea Bridge,’ called the driver informatively. ‘They’ll ‘ave to stop there, so they will.’
‘Why so?’ asked Cameron Bell, now proudly cradling a gun of such preposterous proportions that it was hard to believe he could possibly have had all the numerous bits and pieces simply strapped to his legs.
‘Why so what, sir?’ asked the driver.
‘Why will they have to stop?’ said Cameron Bell.
The wheeler was on two wheels once again. A party of Jovian tourists fled heavily before it.
‘There’s a big hole in the middle,’ said the driver. ‘Sorry, pardon, sir,’ he called to a wounded Jovian. ‘Traction engine fell through it earlier this evening, sir. Very big hole indeed.’
The landau continued its speedy rushing onwards.
Cameron Bell hefted his mighty weapon into view.
‘My, that is a big one,’ said the driver.
‘There might be a bit of recoil,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘so best hold on tight when I fire it.’
‘Have no fear for me, sir.’
Lady Raygun knew no fear at all.
Lavinia Dharkstorrm knew nothing but hatred. The two, despite all the magic and mayhem, were really quite evenly matched.
The Palace of Magic was now an inferno within.
And without, fire was spreading to several buildings.
Well-to-do folk were out in their nightshirts and nighties.
Fire-engine bells were ringing.
Chaos had come to elegant Chelsea.
Chaos, mayhem, smoke and flames and things of that nature. Generally.
Cameron Bell had the landau in his sights and he squeezed down hard on the trigger of the Ferris Firestorm Nineteen-Hundred Series. A bolt of energy tore from the barrel, streaked through the night and struck home in a public house that was called the Lucky Jim.
Late-night drinkers rushed from the building. Several, it appeared, were rather fiercely ablaze.
‘Ouch!’ declared the driver as they swept past the Lucky Jim. ‘Have another shot, though, sir. And I have to admit, there’s very little recoil.’
Cameron Bell was flat on his back. The recoil that he had taken full force had nearly torn his right arm from its socket.
‘They’re on the bridge,’ called the driver. ‘Typical, isn’t it, no warning signs up, someone could come to grief when they get to the middle.’
‘Oh, I do hope so,’ said Cameron Bell, struggling up to take another pot-shot.
‘Perhaps you should just wait until they pull up by the hole,’ called the driver. ‘Shame to damage any more of the bridge, don’t you think?’
But Cameron Bell had his finger once more upon the trigger.
And this time his aim was well and truly sound.
The blue bolt of energy sang through the air and bore forwards directly towards the rear of the landau that was now mounting the bridge.
The driver watched as he steered and he shouted, ‘It’s going to … it’s going to … it’s going to … it’s going to—
‘It’s not!’ For the landau was rising up from the bridge. And the bolt passed harmlessly under.
Under, for the landau was rising higher now, over the yawning hole and up into the sky.
The horses’ hooves drummed onto empty air.
And a pink-clad arm rose up from the rear.
And waved farewell to Mr Cameron Bell.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ the driver cried. Then, ‘Oh my God, the brakes have blown, we’re heading for the hole!’
Mr Bell made to leap from the brakeless wheeler. But found to his horror that, as if by magic, the doors could not be opened.
49
eneath the waters of the Thames, death did not take Mr Cameron Bell. When one is possessed of a very large ray gun, one can extract oneself from a plunging electricwheeler.[21] And, as luck will sometimes have it, a pod of dolphins swimming upstream from their regular haunts in the Thames Delta[22] pulled Mr Bell and the driver ashore, gave a brief demonstration of backflips then swam off into the night in search of big fat fishes.
‘Well,’ said the driver, once more on dry land. ‘Do you want to settle up now?’
Drenched, down at heart and now without a penny to his name, Cameron Bell trudged soggily back to his lodgings. There he discarded the ruination that had until so recently been his evening suit, ava
iled himself of hot water, bathed and took to his bed.
Awaking on the morrow with a very runny nose.
Miss Violet Wond was not at home to callers. Mr Bell learned from her landlady that, ‘There was an attack or some such and Miss Wond is now in the London Hospital.’
Mr Bell hastened there on foot.
At the door to a private room he was met by Ernest Rutherford.
‘Mr Bell,’ said the chemist. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Visiting a friend,’ said Cameron Bell, the lie springing easily to him. ‘And I overheard a nurse mention the name of Violet Wond.’
‘And what is your connection to this lady?’ Mr Ernest Rutherford was very agitated.
‘Mr Rutherford,’ said Mr Bell, ‘I am aware that Miss Wond made a gift of the Marie Lloyd to you.’
Ernest Rutherford nodded curtly. ‘This is so,’ said he.
‘Then might I ask,’ enquired Mr Bell, ‘the condition of the patient?’
‘In truth, not good.’ The chemist’s hands were shaking. ‘She was viciously attacked last night. She is most severely injured.’
‘I am so very sorry to hear that.’ And Cameron certainly was.
‘She is being well cared for. We can only hope and pray.’
‘Indeed,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Might I enquire what Miss Wond was wearing when she was found?’
‘What an impertinent question.’
‘Mr Rutherford, I am a detective. I will do anything in my power to bring the perpetrator of this crime to justice.’
‘Of course, Bell, of course. Forgive me. She was found upon her bed, in her night attire.’
Thank Heaven for that, thought Mr Bell. ‘And might I ask one other question? And this is a delicate matter. What is the nature of the injuries to her face?’
Ernest Rutherford made an outraged expression.
‘Please,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I really need to know.’
The chemist’s hands were making fists. ‘Years ago,’ said he, ‘she was most cruelly treated. Some demonic surgeon worked evil upon her tender features, twisted them into a mask of absolute horror.’