Mr Bucket was not a man who, under any circumstances, would have taken kindly to a besplattering of monkey dung. And in his present fractious state of mind he struck out, as folk will sometimes do in such circumstances, randomly, but, him being a large man, with considerable force.
He brought down, by chance, a chappie named Chub, one of four brothers. All of whom were organ-grinders and all of whom were present in the room.
The brass knuckle-duster and the lead-weighted cosh were this season’s concealed weapons of choice amongst the hoi polloi. And before one could say, ‘Peace be unto thee, brother grinder,’ a multiplicity of such martial artefacts were brought forth from their concealments and put to service in the art of war.
A war that grew and grew to almost biblical proportions.
For thusly then did grinder smite at grinder and loudly rang the cries of battle therewith. Great, too, were the weepings and wailings, and indeed the gnashings of teeth as Man’s hirsute and humble cousin smote alike his own kind and the Sons of Adam,[10] too.
Mr Cameron Bell ducked smartly aside as a champagne cooler passed him by at close quarters. Darwin the monkey was up on the table, trousers down and eager for a tussle.
Mr Bell eyed the table occupied by Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm and her associates: two East End bare-knuckle fighters, an unconvicted poisoner and a Frenchman of evil intent. Miss Dharkstorrm was loading her awards into an oversized reticule and appeared about to make an opportune departure. One of the bare-knuckle fighters knocked down a fellow named Chub. The fellow’s brothers took to a bloody revenge.
Tables were now being overturned and chairs brought into play as weaponry. The Frenchman of evil intent was torturing a waiter. Then someone pulled out a pistol and fired it into the ceiling.
The purpose of this reckless act might not have been reckless at all; it might in fact have been one of good intention, an attempt to halt the altercation and to restore peace, order and good sense. It did not, however, achieve these noble ends. Rather it focused the attention of a passing bobby, who drew forth his truncheon and took to blowing his whistle.
The sound of a policeman’s whistle was not one that signalled joy amongst the members of the club next door to Leno’s. This was not a gentlemen’s club per se, although it was a club frequented by gentlemen. The name of the club was Molly’s and it catered to those who favoured wearing the apparel of the opposite sex and engaging in acts which, even in this most enlightened of times, were not strictly legal.
The police whistle, blowing as it did in the key of ‘la’, was disharmoniously accompanied by the sound of the large casement window of Leno’s bursting asunder in the key of E-flat minor to admit the passage of several large organ-grinders locked in titanic conflict. As glass and timber and grinders too all toppled into Leicester Square, a new dimension of excitement was added to the turmoil within. A hurled champagne bottle struck a gas mantle, shattering same and causing a minor but significant explosion that set fire to the curtains with most dramatic effect.
A burly grinder tore down these curtains and took to stamping out the flames. He soon, however, found himself trampled beneath many feet as, fighting as they fled, the evening-suited combatants sought a hasty exit through the yawning maw that had once been a casement window.
The defenestrated grinders found themselves met all but head-on by the fleeing habitués of Molly’s. Monkeys bounded onto the pavement, frightening the horses of a passing growler. The policeman, sufficiently distanced so as to avoid the danger of any personal injury, put new life into his whistle-blowing. Horses reared. The growler overturned. Within the dining room of Leno’s flames began to lick up the walls.
Mr Bell hauled Darwin from the table. The single table, so it appeared, that had not been overturned.
‘Time to go,’ he told the monkey. ‘Miss Lavinia and her henchmen are taking their leave by the rear entrance. We should do likewise, I feel.’
As Darwin found flames fearful, he clung to Cameron Bell as the great detective threaded his way between broken furniture and battered bodies.
Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm left the building.
Before Leno’s, in the square named for Earl Leicester, mayhem abounded and misrule was the order of the evening. The lady-men of Molly’s, believing the evening-suited grinders to be some company of plain-clothed policemen from the newly formed Vice Division, set about the grinders with a will. A party of Jovian sightseers found themselves drawn into the mèlée and, knowing from their guidebooks that London had a colourful history of riots and social unrest, joyfully took to the staving-in of a nearby hat shop and the looting of its contents.
Behind Leno’s, in a back passage named for no particular historical personage and known only as Doggers’ Alley, stood two horse-drawn conveyances. The first was an elegant four-wheeled landau, which seated six. Aboard this, in a fine scarlet uniform with matching high top hat, sat a straight-backed driver, facing to the front. The second was a hansom cab adorned by an ill-kempt sleeper who smelled most strongly of gin.
From the rear entrance of Leno’s issued Miss Dharkstorrm, in the company of one bare-knuckle fighter, an unconvicted poisoner and the winner of the Liveliest Monkey Award, the chestnut-haired and hazel-eyed Pandora.
‘Into our landau,’ cried the High Priestess. ‘We will away from this lunacy, as of now.’
Once all were aboard, she ordered the driver to put his whip to the horses.
‘At your service, ma’am,’ came the reply.
The landau set to a goodly speed, its wheels raising sparks on the cobbles of Doggers’ Alley.
Now out from the rear entrance came Cameron Bell. Darwin was still clinging to the great detective, who threw himself aboard the hansom and ordered the driver to, ‘Follow that cab as I have hired you to do.’
‘Pardon?’ said the driver, stirring somewhat from his drunken stupor.
‘Follow the landau, man! Follow the landau!’
‘Froggo the lighterman? Who in the Devil is he?’
‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Hold on tightly, Darwin, for I am going to drive this cab.’
It was but the work of a moment or two: the climbing down from the passenger compartment; the climbing up to the driver’s perch; the forcible tossing of the drunken driver from his perch; the whipping-up of the single horse; and the setting off apace.
Doggers’ Alley debouched into Leicester Square at a sufficient distance from Leno’s that a passenger in a landau or a hansom, travelling from there to a further part of the square, might do so in comfort, enjoying the sight of what was now a full-blown riot without having their enjoyment in any way curtailed by actually becoming involved in it.
Not that rioters do not enjoy themselves. On the contrary, there is nothing quite like a good riot to set the pulse racing and the heart a-beating like a big bass drum.
Darwin took no small delight in viewing the antics of his fellow simians who, now perched high atop lamp posts, were raining faeces onto the crowds below. Two Black Marias entered Leicester Square. Flames were rising highly now from Leno’s.
The landau was all but out of sight. But Mr Bell, aware of the general direction in which it was heading, stirred up the horse and pressed it on at a trot.
The little hatch above the passenger compartment popped open and Darwin stuck his head out.
‘Well, I must say I enjoyed that,’ said the ape.
‘I thought you might,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You are always going on about Man’s inhumanity to Monkey. I felt it might be instructive for you to witness an example of Man’s inhumanity to Woman.’
Darwin cocked his head on one side. ‘You knew about the results,’ said he.
‘I knew about the results.’
‘I suspect,’ said Darwin, ‘that if she really is a witch then the results were the result, as it were, of certain witcheries.’
Cameron Bell shook his head. ‘Oh, bother,’ he said. ‘I left without my hat. But no, her witcheries, if such s
he possesses, played no part in the results.’
‘Then she genuinely won the awards?’
‘Not as such,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I switched the envelopes, you see, when I left the table before the dinner began.’
‘Oh, bravo,’ said Darwin. ‘Although—’
‘Although what?’ asked Cameron Bell, flicking the whip at the horse, which had slackened from a brisk trot to a stroll. ‘Although what, exactly?’
‘I counted at least two dead on the way out,’ said Darwin. ‘I expect the body count will have risen significantly by the morning.’
‘Happily,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘if that word can be applied in such a context, the two fatalities were a bare—knuckle fighter and a Frenchman of evil intent — two of Miss Dharkstorrm‘s henchmen. I had been hoping something like that might occur, to lessen the danger to us when we capture her.’ Cameron Bell made a thoughtful face. ‘However,’ said he, ‘I do not see how I could possibly be blamed for the altercation or the fatalities.’
Two fire engines, their bells ringing loudly, sped towards and past them.
‘You substituted the results to allow a woman to win,’ said Darwin. ‘It is all your fault and no other’s.’
‘I recall clearly,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘that the fighting began when Mr Danny Bucket was struck by a hand-flung helping of dung.’
Darwin quietened somewhat. Then, ‘Hold hard a minute,’ he said.
‘What now?’ asked Cameron Bell.
‘The original and genuine results,’ said Darwin. ‘I might have won an award.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I checked. Although—’
‘Although what?’
‘I was nominated in the Best-Dressed category.’
‘As “Most Badly Disguised Detective”?’ asked the monkey.
‘I must concentrate on my driving,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Close the little hatch and sit yourself down.’
They had now reached the Victoria Embankment and were passing Cleopatra’s Needle. The Moon shone from a cloudless sky and tinged the ancient obelisk with silver. Cameron Bell sighed and took a deep breath. Ahead now he could see the landau, slowed to an even pace and approaching Waterloo Bridge. On board was a witch, a High Priestess of the Great White Lodge. Possessed of magic? Possibly. Cameron Bell had encountered magic before, real magic, and its power had chilled him to the bone. He was a detective. A great detective. Greatest of the age, many claimed, and he was amongst this many. Show him an article of clothing and from it he could construct a description of the wearer that was little less than uncanny. Give him an item — a watch, a snuffbox, whatever — and he could divine from its perusal more inferences than any man alive. But match him against the powers of magic and he was oft-times lost.
He could have traced any normal criminal to their hideaway with comparative ease, but Miss Dharkstorrm, it so appeared, was no ordinary criminal. Again and again she had outfoxed him. He was certain she was responsible for at least three major crimes — the thefts of three valuable antique reliquaries, one of which he was presently engaged to retrieve. Exactly what a witch would want with a reliquary was beyond Mr Bell’s powers to deduce. But he knew that she had them and he knew, just knew, that he would take them from her. For tonight he would employ the wonders of modern-day science to uncover the secret lair of the elusive Miss Dharkstorrm. Tonight he would succeed. Tonight he would triumph.
He would, he truly would.
A sudden coldness chilled the air and worried at his naked scalp. ‘I wish I had not forgotten my hat,’ said he.
Ahead the landau carried on along the Embankment past Waterloo Bridge, for although unknown to Cameron Bell, a true witch cannot pass over running water.
Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm lolled upon perfumed pillows, Pandora snoring gently on her lap. She raised a star-shaped mirror in a delicate hand, gazed into it and found pleasure in the viewing.
‘Tonight you will not lose me, Mr Bell,’ said she, ‘for tonight I have a score to settle with you.
To the right the moonlight twinkled on the Thames. To the left a red glow showed above the rooftops as flames curled up into the sky from Leicester Square …
12
lip and clop went the horse’s hooves, as a horse’s hooves will do. The rhythmic beat on the cobbled street created an eerie mood. Cameron Bell found he was nodding off and shook himself into sensibility. He had imbibed too freely of the champagne this night and he knew it. And a most inferior champagne, too, hardly the Château Doveston he preferred. Ahead the landau moved at an even pace and there was little in the way of other traffic. An electric brewer’s dray purred by, bound for taverns in Chelsea. Overhead an airship drifted, on course for the Royal London Spaceport at Sydenham Hill. Beyond the river, over on the South Bank, Cameron spied one of the new power stations and beyond that one of the tall Tesla towers that broadcasted electricity from a glittering sphere high above. The wireless transmission of electricity was the brainchild of Nikola Tesla, now Lord Tesla for his services to the British Empire. He and Lord Babbage had created so many marvels of the modern age. And so too had Mr Ernest Rutherford, a gentleman of Cameron Bell’s acquaintance. A gentleman with a well-stocked cellar containing many bottles of Château Doveston.
‘I must pay Mr Rutherford a visit,’ said Mr Bell as the horse clopped on. ‘In fact, I might visit him tomorrow to report the success or not of the little piece of science that may aid my cause tonight.’
With this said, Mr Bell dug into an inner pocket of his evening-suit jacket and brought into the moonlight a brass contrivance of intricate design and no immediately obvious purpose. From another pocket and amidst much juggling of the horse’s reins, he extracted something resembling a small brass ear trumpet. With the reins now in his mouth, he proceeded to screw the two curious items together.
A tiny brass nameplate bolted to the queerly shaped contraption was engraved with the words
Which might have suggested a use to a few, but probably not to the many.
‘So, let us see,’ said Mr Bell, with the reins now in his right hand and the brassy apparatus in his left. ‘If I have made the preparations correctly and this actually works, I will beard the lioness within her den. Now, the principle is this, if I remember correctly. Step one, create a unique fragrance by mixing a quantity of random scents which would not by chance be mixed together. Step two, apply a portion of it to the person or vehicle you wish to follow and place a similar portion within the Bloodhound. Earlier this evening I smeared such a portion on the rear of the landau. The Bloodhound has a range of three hundred feet and within this range can literally sniff out the portion you have pasted upon your target. Very clever indeed.
‘Step three, switch on the Bloodhound and follow the direction indicators.’ Mr Bell switched on the Bloodhound.
A dull hum rose from it and a needle upon a directional dial circled slowly, then stopped with its pointer aiming straight ahead.
‘Splendid,’ said Mr Bell. ‘It appears to work in the open. The problem in the past has been tracing her through the narrow side-streets, so hopefully the Bloodhound will prove its worth amongst them.’
At which precise moment the landau ahead took a left turn into Temple Avenue and entered the notorious maze of streets that lay between the Temple and St Bride’s.
‘Now to prove your worth,’ said Cameron Bell, feeling quietly confident as the directional pointer swung towards the left.
There were still many slums in London where poor folk lived in wretched squalor, prey to want and foulness and disease. Great social movements were in progress and there was always the promise that things would change for the poor, that their hopeless lives would be enhanced, their hovels torn down, new housing built, their children educated, a brave new world set before them.
But sadly it was mostly talk. Well—intentioned talk perhaps, but mostly only talk. The modern world with all its wonders favoured but a few. The rich got richer and the poor stayed poor.
Mr Bell lacked not for a social conscience, but what was he to do? He followed his calling. He was a detective. He brought justice. He did what he felt to be right. Honesty and integrity were his watchwords. He could do no more than he did.
As he steered the horse up Temple Avenue, his mood began to darken. A rank smell clothed the evening air and horrid sounds came to his ears. A woman’s cry. A drunken oath. Mr Bell pressed on. The Bloodhound’s needle swung to the right and Mr Bell tugged at the right-hand rein, but the horse wasn’t keen at all.
‘Come on, boy,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘There is far greater danger for me here than there is for you.
Grudgingly the horse turned into a narrow side-street. There were many smells down here and all were nasty. As there was no street lighting, the great detective was forced to hold the Bloodhound aloft and follow its pointer by moonlight alone.
And so he followed its pointing down this narrow street and the next until he came to a little square illumined by the light of the Moon, at the centre of which was a single tall and narrow house. Before this stood the landau.
‘Positively splendid,’ whispered Cameron Bell, drawing the horse to a halt, dismantling his apparatus and returning the pieces to his pockets. From yet another pocket he drew out a sleek pistol of advanced design: a pocket ray gun known as the Gentleman’s Friend. Mr Bell engaged the charge button and stepped quietly down from the hansom.
‘Darwin,’ he whispered, glancing into the cab. Darwin the monkey was fast asleep. Mr Bell smiled. ‘Probably all for the best,’ said he. ‘I would not want you to come to harm. Your behaviour at times is outrageous, but I am very fond of you, my little friend.’
Darwin mumbled the word ‘banana’ in his sleep. Mr Bell pressed quietly on towards the narrow building.
It was an ancient affair, half-timbered with tiny windows of bottle glass, a sharply gabled roof and tottering chimney-pots.
Mr Bell crept to the landau and took a peep inside. It was empty. All indoors, then, thought the detective. Then another thought struck him, too, one that really should have struck him earlier. There could be numerous villains within, far more than those who had arrived in the landau. Entering the building might be extremely dangerous. So, what to do?