The dining room was suitably grand, with many marble pillars and alcoves where the bronze busts of eminent club members stood, to be respectfully admired. Once a year, the British Showmen’s Fellowship hired this room for their special dinner to honour the achievements of the organ-grinding fraternity. It was a most exclusive event and although Mr Bell had. managed to forge an invitation card, finding a seat at the numbered tables might prove problematic.
‘Name?’ asked the liveried servant.
‘William Stirling,’ said Cameron Bell, who had. been close enough to catch the name of the piratically inclined ex-student of the Royal Academy of Music, who had, most conveniently, failed to gain entrance here.
‘Follow me, sir,’ said the liveried servant. ‘And will your p—’
Cameron Bell put his finger to his lips. ‘Best not to use the “p” word,’ said he. ‘My assistant does not take kindly to it.’
The liveried servant led Mr “Stirling” and his assistant to their seats, then departed, nose held high in the air.
‘Thank you for that,’ whispered Darwin, scrambling onto the vacant chair beside Mr Bell. ‘My, what a lot of organ-grinders and what a lot of monkeys.’
There were twenty circular tables and each of these tables sat ten. That made for one hundred men and one hundred monkeys, by Darwin’s calculation. And the thought alone of finding himself in a room with ninety-nine other monkeys was one sufficient to cause the simian no small degree of excitement. And Darwin was clearly not alone in this, for numerous others of his kind were already upon the tables squealing joyfully and getting up to what can only be described as monkey business.
The tables were spread with Irish linen cloths, adorned by floral centre-pieces and laid with a daunting array of cutlery. Clearly many courses were to come.
The eyes of Cameron Bell took in the room and the diners who sat therein. The great detective’s remarkable natural intuition and honed observational skills enabled him to see much more than any average fellow might. He discerned subtleties in dress and disposition that informed him as to who was who and also what was what.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bell to his excited assistant, ‘we have the very cream of London’s underworld amongst us tonight. It would appear that I am not the only one who represents himself as an organ-grinder in order to move as if invisibly betwixt and between the London throng.’
‘All men dressed in evening suits look the same to me, whispered Darwin. ‘Where is this suspect of yours?’
‘She is seated over there,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You cannot miss her.’
‘A lady?’ asked Darwin. ‘A female organ-grinder?’
‘She is dressed as a man when she grinds.’
Darwin viewed the woman in question. She was a slender woman, with hair piled high in an intricate coiffure. She was dressed in a tightly fitting gentleman’s evening suit, which created a look that few men would find unappealing. She had the most extraordinary eyes the ape had ever seen. Mauve, they were, and glowing as if lit from within.
‘She goes by the unlikely name of Lavinia Dharkstorrm, ‘said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘She is a High Priestess of the Great White Lodge. A witch, she claims to be. She is also one of the most dangerous women in London.’
Darwin peered at this notable figure. Then he peered at the being sitting next to her. It was a monkey. A female monkey. A beautiful female monkey. She was chestnut-haired and hazel—eyed, with the prettiest of noses.
Darwin for once became speechless. He became entranced.
Cameron Bell had taken account of those who sat at his own table. He perceived them to be but minor criminals, who were showing him no interest at all and who did not present any significant threat. Those on Lavinia Dharkstorrm’s table were quite another matter. Two East End bare-knuckle fighters, an unconvicted poisoner and a Frenchman of sinister intent. Ugly customers all and their apes had menacing aspects.
‘Now,’ whispered Cameron Bell to Darwin, ‘there is a certain important matter that I have to attend to. I shall return in five minutes. You will behave yourself while I am away, will you not?’
‘Whatever,’ said Darwin, who was not really listening, but possibly falling in love.
Cameron Bell followed the direction of Darwin’s intense gazings, then smiled and nodded his head.
Mr Bell was gone far less than five minutes. But when he returned, he returned to no small chaos.
The liveried servant had Darwin by the scruff of the evening suit, and Darwin was protesting in monkey tongue to this. There was a great deal of cutlery all about the floor and many men in evening suits were holding back their monkeys, all of whom it seemed had very much to shriek about.
‘Please keep your creature under control,’ said the liveried servant, thrusting Darwin at Cameron Bell.
‘He’s very highly strung,’ said the great detective. ‘I am sure it was not he who started the trouble.’
The liveried servant made a sour face, turned upon his heel and marched away.
Darwin looked up at Cameron Bell and the man thought to detect a very guilty expression upon the monkey’s face.
‘For future reference,’ said the detective, ‘it is generally best not to anger the staff before they serve your meal, for they will often take a bitter revenge in your soup.
‘I don’t want the soup,’ said Darwin, and folded his arms in a huff.
Presently the soup arrived, but Darwin had fruit for his starter.
Cameron Bell leaned close to his partner and whispered into his little hairy ear. ‘When the trouble starts,’ he whispered, ‘you stay close to me.
‘You are definitely expecting trouble, then?’ said Darwin, with his mouth all full of fruit.
‘Expecting it?’ whispered Cameron Bell. ‘I am relying upon it. For after all, I am the one who will be responsible for causing it.’
Cameron Bell did tappings at his snubby nose. Darwin found sweet taste in a ripened kumquat.
9
entish Town Fried Chicken and chips,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, prodding same with a silver fork. ‘I am not altogether certain about this particular course.
Darwin looked up from a-munching of mangos. ‘I don’t like chickens,’ he said. ‘In fact, I hate them.’
Cameron nodded as he prodded. ‘I don’t think anyone particularly likes chickens as such. Other than the eating of them.’
‘They have too many theories,’ said Darwin, pushing more mango than was strictly necessary into his mouth and chewing away with a will.
‘Too many theories?’ asked Cameron Bell. ‘What do you mean by that?’
As no one was paying either of them the slightest attention, the man and the monkey conversed freely. Other men in that elegant room did speak with other monkeys. Mostly, however, to offer threats of punishment for further unseemly behaviour.
‘I travelled briefly with the circus,’ said Darwin, when finally he had swallowed. ‘With Wombwell’s Menagerie. A showman named Figby exhibited a chicken act — Figby’s Fantastical Fowl. They walked tightropes, danced the “fowl fandango”, engaged in fencing competitions, all the usual sort of rigmarole.’
Cameron Bell speared a portion of Kentish Town Fried Chicken with his silver fork, brought it to his nose and sniffed at it.
‘All the usual stuff,’ said he. ‘Carry on.
‘There was a cock,’ said Darwin, preparing to tackle a pomegranate. ‘A big black cock he was, named Junior, and he had quarters next to mine. He would go on and on and on about this thing and the other.’
Mr Bell peered down at Darwin. ‘A talking cock?’ said he.
‘He didn’t speak English,’ said Darwin. ‘He spoke “chicken”, but it’s not that hard to understand. But no one tries, because for the most part chickens are utterly boring. They just say “cluck” which means “food”. It’s not much of a conversation.’
Cameron Bell returned his chicken to his plate, lifted the glass of champagne he had been poured and took to the sniffing of that. Between
such sniffings, he said, ‘I do believe you are joking with me, young Darwin.’
‘Not a bit of it.’ The monkey considered the pomegranate then thrust the whole thing in at once. Mr Bell sipped at his champagne and waited patiently.
‘That was a bit of a struggle,’ said Darwin, rubbing at his throat. ‘So where was I? Oh, yes. Well, as you probably know, chickens, like most birds, have their own religion.’
‘They have what?’ asked Cameron Bell, coughing into his glass.
‘Religion,’ said Darwin. ‘They worship Lop Lop, God of the Birds. They believe that the universe was born from a giant egg.’
‘And what laid this egg?’ asked Mr Bell.
‘The Great Mother Hen who’s married to Lop Lop.’
‘And where did this gigantic chicken come from?’
‘Out of an egg,’ said Darwin. ‘There appears to be some debate amongst chickens as to which came first.’
‘As there is amongst men. Please continue.’
‘Lop Lop created the Earth, which is shaped like an egg.
‘A very round egg,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘A very round egg,’ agreed Darwin. ‘The Great Mother Hen gave birth to two chickens, a big black one and a little white one. Henny Penny and Chicken Licken, they were called.’
‘You are making it all up,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But continue with it if you wish. It is faintly amusing.’
‘So,’ continued Darwin, ‘these two first-born of Earth lived in a beautiful chicken run. But they were tempted by a wily fox and fell out of favour with Lop Lop and his missus.’
‘And a chicken told you this?’
‘A big black cock named Junior, yes, he did.’
‘Remarkable,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘The next time I bump into your namesake, Mr Darwin, I will pass this on to him.’
‘I haven’t told you about the theory yet.’ Darwin looked hard at a pineapple.
‘Dear God, no!’ said Cameron Bell.
‘The theory is this,’ said Darwin, weighing up the pineapple between his hairy hands. ‘Although chickens believe in Lop Lop, they also believe in Mr Darwin’s theory of evolution. They believe that some of their forefathers evolved — into men. They believe that all men evolved from chickens.’
‘That is absurd,’ said Mr Bell, finishing his champagne and reaching towards the bottle, which stood in a silver Georgian cooler.
‘I agree,’ said Darwin. ‘I believe that apes evolved from Man.’
‘The other way around,’ said Cameron Bell. Darwin turned the pineapple the other way around. ‘No, not the pineapple — the evolution. Man evolved from ape.’
‘That is most magnanimous of you,’ said Darwin.
‘In what way?’ asked Mr Bell.
‘Well, according to your Old Testament, the first people of God were his most perfect creations — that is correct, is it not?’
Cameron nodded. ‘Such is the belief,’ said he.
‘Then came Man’s fall from grace, when he was forced to leave the Garden of Eden, and it has been downhill all the way ever since.’
‘Spiritually, perhaps,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But Mankind has attained many startling achievements. We live now in an age of wonders.’
‘But the first man was the purest man and the first man knew God personally. He was therefore the most superior of all men.’
‘If you put it like that,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘But you believe that Man is descended from monkeys, which therefore means that the first and most perfect being was an ape. Most magnanimous of you, thanks very much indeed.’
Cameron Bell did scratchings at his naked scalp. Somehow or other a monkey had just run theological and evolutionary rings around him.
‘But,’ continued this monkey, ‘the chickens believe that Man is descended from the original fowls of the Great Mother Hen. Present-day Man eats present-day chicken, unaware that they are both of the same root race. The same stock. It is part of the punishment for Henny Penny and Chicken Licken committing Original Sin when tempted by the wily fox. And what is more, they also believe that this happened only a very short time ago.’
‘Four thousand years before the birth of Christ,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘that is the date fixed by religious fundamentalists for the Creation. In fact, they have it down to a date and a day. James Ussher, the Anglican Archbishop of Armagh, famously stated that the Creation began at nightfall preceding Sunday October the twenty-third, four thousand and four BC.’
Darwin replaced the pineapple onto the table, much to the relief of Cameron Bell. ‘The chickens consider it to be a lot more recent than that,’ he said. ‘They believe the world began on the twenty-fourth of May in the year eighteen nineteen.’
‘That date sounds familiar,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘And so it should — it is the day on which Queen Victoria was born.’
Cameron Bell refilled his champagne glass. ‘Priceless,’ said he. ‘And a fine tale, too, Darwin. Well done with that.’
‘I am not making it up,’ said Darwin. ‘The chickens take it very seriously. They believe that there was nothing before the birth of Queen Victoria, that this age sprang into being with her royal birth and that nothing existed before it. And although I hate to say this, as a theory it is hard to argue against.’
‘But it is clearly ludicrous,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You yourself live in Syon House, designed by Robert Adam and built in the year seventeen sixty-two. There stands your house as proof against that theory.’
‘On the contrary. You believe in the omnipotence of God, do you not? That God, by nature of being God, must be all-powerful, all-knowing, ever present and beyond all but the tiniest bit of human understanding?’
Cameron Bell looked hard at his partner and companion. ‘It is very clear to me,’ said he, ‘that you have given these matters considerable thought.’
‘I read the scriptures daily,’ said Darwin.
‘You do?’
‘I would know what I can of the truth. I would seek to know whether I have a soul of my own.’
‘Oh, Darwin,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I don’t know quite what to say.
‘Then listen. I know that you believe in God. I know that you have experienced things that leave no doubt at all in your mind that God exists.’
‘In truth, I have,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And although a rationalist, I have no personal doubts regarding the existence of God.’ Mr Bell raised his glass and drank deeply of it. ‘This is the sort of conversation I generally have at my club after umpteen ports and lavish helpings of brandy,’ he said.
‘The theory is this,’ said the monkey, ‘that everything prior to the birth of Queen Victoria, every ancient artefact, every piece of music, of art, of architecture, was brought into being simultaneously at the moment the God-Queen was born.’
‘The God-Queen?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘Queen Victoria is the manifestation of the Great Mother Hen on Earth. I might, as a slightly humorous aside, draw your attention to the fact that Prince Albert did look very much like a chicken.’
Cameron Bell gave thought to this. ‘In fact he did,’ he said.
‘So,‘ said Darwin, an omnipotent God, who can do anything, creates a world and with it a history that stretches back and back.’
‘But why?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘To test the faith of his — or rather her subjects. If your grandfather could remember the Creation and told you all about it when you were young, there would be no need for faith, would there?’
Cameron Bell scratched once more at his head. ‘I do believe,’ he said, ‘that I am getting out of my depth in this conversation. As a theory, I agree it is hard to logically refute. If God, or Goddess, did create the world a mere eighty years ago, complete with all previous artefacts, records, et cetera, et cetera, there would be no way of proving otherwise.’
‘And that is why I hate chickens,’ said Darwin. ‘Their theory is as good as any other.’
‘But it co
uld not be true,’ said Cameron Bell, and he scratched once more at his head.
‘But it could,’ said Darwin. ‘That is the problem. It could. Which would mean, of course, that everything chronicled in the Bible, in both Old and New Testaments, never happened. That it is all allegorical, penned by God or Goddess, set down to test our faith. It makes you think, does it not?’
‘It does,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And it is odd that we should have this conversation at a time like this.’
‘Why so?’ Darwin considered a pumpkin. Cameron Bell shook his head.
‘Because the stolen item that I hope to lay my hands upon tonight is a reliquary said to contain some ancient piece of a saint. It is said to be one thousand years old. A priceless artefact. One wonders what value might be placed upon it if it was proved to be no more than eighty years old and the remnant of a holy man who never actually existed.’
‘Best not to think too much about it,’ said Darwin. ‘The more I think about it, the more confused I become. Give me a piece of your chicken. Upon this occasion I will break from my strictly vegetarian diet. Damned chickens!’
Cameron Bell smiled and passed over the fork-load of fowl. ‘I will present the theory in its entirety to Mr Darwin the next time I see him. He can at times be a rather smug fellow and it will be a pleasure to see him squirm.’
‘The world has no shortage of smug fellows,’ said Darwin, tasting chicken then spitting it out in disgust. ‘It always tickles me to read the latest theories of how the universe began. They are so often penned by pompous persons who sincerely believe that they can fathom the mysteries of the infinite and gather together its eternal wonder in the form of equations set down on a piece of paper.’
‘You are wise beyond your years, my friend.’ And Cameron Bell filled his glass once more and toasted the monkey with it.
‘Of course,’ said Darwin, ‘there would be one way to sort it all out and know the truth.’
‘Would there?’ asked Mr Bell.
‘Go and find out for oneself’
‘And how might this miracle be achieved?’
‘I have read lately,’ said Darwin, ‘a novelisation by Mr H. G. Wells. It is called The Time Machine. If one of these were to be built, perhaps I could travel back to the dawn of Creation and see what really happened.’