Mr Bell eyed the substance of the building. Predominantly timber. It would burn rather well. Mr Bell weighed up the pros and cons of this. It would be an irresponsible action, but it would probably have the desired effect, for when Lavinia Dharkstorrm fled the blazing building she would certainly do so in the company of the stolen reliquaries. And Mr Bell could pick off her associates with a few well-aimed blasts to their lower regions. Nothing fatal.
Mr Bell’s left hand strayed towards his waistcoat pocket, wherein rested his silver match-case. It would be the work of a mere moment or two.
But then something struck him, and struck him hard. Mr Bell was pitched from his feet and tumbled to the ground. A hobnailed boot swung into contact with his belly, driving the breath from his lungs, and rough hands were laid upon his person.
‘Up, you,’ barked a cockney voice. ‘Up onto your feet.’
Mr Bell floundered, gagging for air, as he was hauled from the ground.
‘He’s a heavy ‘un, ain’t ‘ee?’ the cockney voice said merrily. ‘Like your nosebag, do you, Mr Pickwick?’
Cameron Bell clasped his stomach. He felt certain that he was going to throw up. He no longer held his ray gun and was now in serious trouble. He gaped red-faced at his attacker. The East End bare-knuckle fighter. But where. had he sprung from? And who was with him?
The bare-knuckle fighter twisted Mr Bell’s left arm up his back as the unconvicted poisoner approached.
‘Well, well, well,’ said this fellow. ‘If it isn’t Mr Cameron Bell, the world’s most famous detective. Fancy meeting you here. Out for a bit of a stroll and got lost, did you? This is a dangerous place to be out on your own. How fortunate we’ve found you.’
The poisoner removed his black leather gloves, pushed them into a pocket and flexed long, sensitive fingers. ‘My mistress tires of your attentions,’ he said, wagging his fingers at Mr Bell. ‘She says that we must punish you most brutally.’
Cameron Bell sought any escape, but he was firmly held and no escape was forthcoming.
‘See,’ said the poisoner, curling and uncurling his fingers before Cameron’s face. ‘See how each nail of my hand is sharpened to a tiny point, and each loaded with a different poison. One here—’ and he thrust his forefinger towards the detective ‘—to kill you outright in seconds. Another—’ and he displayed this ‘—to induce a lingering and painful death. Entertaining to watch, but most excruciating to experience. What shall it be, then? I have eight other options — I can run through them all, if you wish.’
‘Just kill him quick and let’s go for an ale,’ said the bareknuckle fighter. ‘You waffle on too much before you do a killin’.’
‘You lout,’ said the poisoner. ‘You have no style. No finesse. I studied under one of the last grand masters. I have learned techniques kept secret from the world for a thousand years.
Mr Bell had regained his breath but was still helpless to escape.
‘Spare my life,’ said he, ‘and I will reward you handsomely. Name your price and I will pay it.’
The poisoner slowly shook his head. ‘Too late,’ said he. ‘I have removed my gloves and by the Poisoners’ Code, they cannot be replaced upon my hands until a man lies dead or dying at my feet.’
‘Then do get on wiv it,’ said the bare-knuckle fighter, giving Mr Bell’s arm a vicious twist as he did so.
Then, ‘No!’ cried a new voice. The voice of Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm. She stood in the open doorway of the tall narrow house dressed in robes of crimson velvet, a most dramatic figure in the moonlight.
‘I do not want Mr Bell dead,’ said she. ‘Not yet. Disabled though, perhaps.’
The poisoner smiled, evilly, and raised the little finger of his left hand. ‘A single jab,’ said he, ‘and our portly friend will lie like a jelly, torn with agony but unable to move a muscle or utter a word ever again.’
‘Dear God, no!’ cried Cameron Bell. ‘I beg you, please have mercy.
‘And where is your God now?’ asked Lavinia Dharkstorrm.
The poisoner looked towards her and waved his long, deadly fingers.
‘I think,’ said the High Priestess, ‘that you should apply a combination of coup de poudre and mandrake to our uninvited guest.’
‘Zombie Dust,’ said the poisoner. ‘Reduce him to a mindless slave. We will have sport with him then.’
Many thoughts now passed through the mind of Cameron Bell. Amongst these was one which informed him most accurately that although in the course of his duties as a consulting detective he had come up against many evil people, the woman and the poisoner before him were undoubtedly the two most abominable specimens of humankind it had ever been his misfortune to encounter.
‘Poison him,’ said Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm, turning upon her heel and re-entering the tall narrow house.
The poisoner grinned and raised a hand, his venom-coated fingernails a-twinkle in the moonlight.
‘Thus and so,’ said he, his hand held high, ‘our slave shall you be.’
Cameron Bell stood frozen with fear as the poisoner curled his fingers. And many many thoughts now entered his mind. Mostly to the effect that he really had not planned this evening quite as well as he might have.
And then things took a very terrible turn. A bright light flashed before Cameron Bell and warm liquid spattered his face. A scream of pain rang in his ears, but it did not come from the mouth of Cameron Bell.
The detective glanced towards the man who would horribly poison him. The man stood like a statue, gazing up.
Gazing up towards the spot where but a moment before his left hand had hovered.
For now that hand was no more to be seen.
And blood gushed freely from the severed wrist.
13
hilst engaged upon business in Paris the previous year, Cameron Bell had attended the opening night of Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol. This curious palace of entertainment specialised in performances which were representations of naturalistic horror — torture, murder, disfigurement and gory revenge figured large. Mr Bell had left during the intermission and gone in search of a steadying absinthe or two.
And now, upon this summer’s evening in London, the detective looked on with startled eyes as a scene that might well have stepped from the stage of Le Grand-Guignol played out right before him.
The poisoner, clutching at his bloody stump, sank to the ground, where he lay whimpering with pain. Then Mr Bell saw the woman who had destroyed the assassin’s hand.
She was a most striking creature, spare and well formed, clad in high buttoned boots with tall, slender heels. An intricately decorated brass corset cinched her slim waist and curved up to cover her breasts. She wore a short skirt of segmented leather, which put Mr Bell in mind of those martial garments worn by Roman legionnaires. Broad bracelets of brass encircled her wrists and a fearsome mask of black India rubber covered her head and throat. Within the blank and featureless visage were two circular glass eye— shields and what appeared to be a mesh-covered breathing hole.
The young woman, for such she clearly was, presented an appearance that was both terrifying and tantalising by turn.
She held in her right hand a large ray gun of Martian design which she now lifted slowly to her covered face in order to blow the smoke from its barrel.
What happened next happened fast, but to Mr Bell, his eyes now popping and his jaw hanging slack, it appeared to occur in slow motion, as would one of those new bioscope presentations produced by Nineteenth Century Fox which presented moving pictures of varying speeds, depending upon how fast one cranked the handle.
The masked woman holstered her ray gun, stepped forward, aimed a high-heeled boot at the fallen poisoner and kicked him into unconsciousness, then literally fell upon the bare-knuckle fighter who still held Mr Bell in his vicious grip.
The East Ender gave a good account of himself He bobbed about and swung his fists, did duckings and divings, too, but he was simply no match for the wondrous woman.
; She side-stepped every fist that was thrown and then in what appeared to be a pure ballet of violence she leapt into the air, swung high her legs and kicked him square in the jaw. As he sank to his knees, she danced in close, turned up his face between her delicate hands, then twisted his head and. snapped his neck with a hideous brutality.
Mr Bell saw the poisoner crawling towards her, his single remaining hand held up to kill. The lady, however, was not for turning and without even a glance behind her, she drew her ray gun from its holster and shot the poisoner dead.
Mr Bell gawped dumbstruck towards his female deliverer, who took a single step forward, raised a hand and lifted his chin to close his gaping mouth.
‘My thanks, dear lady,’ said Cameron Bell, when he could find his voice.
The angel of death who had saved his life had nothing whatever to say, but her hand snaked to the top pocket of Mr Bell’s jacket and drew out his handkerchief, and this she held to his face.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Bell, taking the white silk handkerchief and wiping it across his ample forehead. ‘The blood’s not mine, I hasten to add.’
The masked woman holstered her ray gun once more, took a step back, curtseyed prettily, turned upon her preposterous heels and swiftly marched away.
‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell.
Alone now in the moonlit square he stood, two bodies prone before him. He glanced towards the narrow house. Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm lurked within. Had she seen any of this?
‘Extraordinary business,’ said Mr Bell, dusting himself down. ‘And a most extraordinary woman. Whoever she was.’ He stooped and retrieved his ray gun and on legs that were now most unsteady he ambled over to the front door. Where, having adjusted his gun to ‘maximum’, he shot this door from its hinges.
Mr Bell peered into the house, but found therein nothing but darkness.
‘Miss Dharkstorrm,’ called Mr Bell. ‘Miss Dharkstorrm, your bully boys are dead. I have killed them all. I have no wish to injure you, but rest assured I will if the need arises.
Please step quietly from the house that we might discuss matters.’ Mr Bell’s words echoed within the ancient house but none were returned to him. In fact, there were no sounds at all.
The detective took a step into the darkness. ‘Miss Dharkstorrm,’ he called again. ‘I really must insist that you give yourself up.’
No reply forthcoming, there was nothing else for it, so Mr Bell moved onwards into the darkness. As he felt his way forwards, his eyes slowly adjusted and vague impressions of his surroundings were to be had. The ground floor consisted of nothing but a single empty room with a narrow staircase set against its furthest wall. Mr Bell moved carefully to the foot of this staircase, then gingerly mounted it, slowly and with trepidation, one single creaking stair at a time.
On the first floor there was nothing. A single room, another flight of steps.
On the top floor, however, things were different. Mr Bell entered a pleasantly furnished garret lit by a solitary oil lamp upon a mahogany table. There were Gothic bookcases burdened by many leather-bound volumes, several small cupboards intricately inlaid with ivory and a fireside chair. A coal fire burned in a marble hearth, and upon its mantel shelf stood the three stolen reliquaries.
In the chair sat a small and slender child, a ragged girl who stared at the detective with round eyes filled with fear.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bell, ‘and who are you?’
‘My name is Emily,’ said the child, ‘and I belong to Miss Dharkstorrm.’
The corners of Cameron’s mouth turned down. ‘No longer,’ said he. ‘You are free.’
‘Free?’ asked the ragged child, wringing dirty hands. ‘Free to leave this place?’
‘Free,’ replied Mr Bell.
‘But where will I go?’
‘I will find someone to care for you.’ Cameron Bell now glanced with some concern about the room. ‘Where is Miss Dharkstorrm?’ he asked the child.
‘My mistress has gone.
‘Gone? But gone where?’
‘She left,’ said the girl, but her eyes darted towards one of the cupboards and she raised a shaking finger and pointed with it, too. ‘Mistress has gone away.
‘I understand.’ Cameron Bell beckoned to the child. ‘Go on,’ said he, ‘wait for me downstairs.’
‘I am not allowed downstairs.’
‘You are now. Go quickly and I will soon follow. ‘The child crept away down the stairs and Cameron Bell approached the cupboard, ray gun at the ready.
‘Kindly come out, Miss Dharkstorrm,’ said he.
But there was no response.
‘I am armed,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You would do well to heed my words.’
The detective edged forward, his ray gun shaking somewhat. This evil woman had him considerably rattled. ‘For the last time,’ said Mr Bell, ‘come out!’ And he reached with his free hand and flung open the cupboard door.
Miss Dharkstorrm was not in the cupboard. Her little monkey was.
Darwin awakened in the hansom cab to the sounds of shouting, and the voice he knew to be that of Cameron Bell.
‘Emily,’ the detective was shouting. ‘Emily, where are you? Please come back.’
Darwin sat up and stared. Mr Bell emerged from the narrow house and came shouting into the square. He was leading by the hand a chestnut-haired monkey that Darwin knew to be Pandora.
Darwin looked on as Mr Bell stepped over something — a corpse, was that? — and approached the hansom cab.
‘Did you see anybody pass just now?’ he asked. ‘Did you see a small child go by?’
Darwin yawned and shook his head, then opened his mouth to speak. But did not. Instead he simply stared at the beautiful Pandora, and she in turn fluttered her eyelashes and demurely studied the ground.
Darwin was about to ask what he had missed and why he had been caused to miss it, but once again he did not speak. For it occurred to Darwin that should he give voice and speak the human tongue, such a thing would surely cause Pandora fear.
‘I am a fool,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Miss Dharkstorrm has escaped and a child she held captive has run away. I do, however, have the stolen reliquaries.’ And he hoisted into view Miss Dharkstorrm’s oversized reticule. ‘Do you wish to take charge of this monkey? Or should we drop her off at London Zoo?’
Darwin nodded, then shook his head.
‘I assume by the love-struck look on your face that you would like to take her home.’
Darwin’s head bobbed up and down.
‘Then I will drive you both to Syon House and from there drive myself to our offices. I have much to muse upon — strange things have occurred and I must have answers. Come, let us away.’
He lifted Pandora gently into the hansom. The female monkey made no fuss and sat down next to Darwin. Mr Bell climbed up to the driver’s seat and stirred the snoozing horse.
And away he drove from the dismal square where two men lay in death.
14
ones the troll swung open the door of Mr Ernest Rutherford.
‘What do you want?’ he shrieked. ‘Waking this household up at eight in the morning.’ He raised his little hairy fists and shook them all about. He was of that order of being whose likeness might be found in the gnomish illustrations of Arthur Rackham: big and bent of nose, squat and broad of belly, somewhat bowed about the legs and with large and pointed ears that thrust out from his swollen hairless head.
‘You can’t come in now, go away!’ And Jones jumped up and down. Before him upon the doorstep stood a slim and elegant woman. She was dressed in the most funereal black, with a thick veil cloaking her face.
‘I have an appointment to see Mr Rutherford,’ she said politely. ‘Please present him with my card.’
‘He can’t see anyone and anyway he’s gone upon his holidays.’
The lady’s blackly gloved hand extended towards the little bobbing figure.
‘Please show him my card,’ said she.
; ‘He is not seeing anybody. Eeeeeeeek!’
The eeeeking on the part of Jones was occasioned by him being suddenly lifted from his feet by a single ear and drawn up to the veiled face of the young woman who was standing upon the doorstep. This young woman now whispered certain words into the tightly gripped ear of the dangling troll called Jones, then let him fall to the steps.
Jones looked up with fear in his bloodshot eyes. ‘I will fetch the master at once,’ said he, meekly holding out his hand for the card. ‘If you would care to wait in the hall?’
Miss Violet Wond entered the house of Mr Ernest Rutherford and stood in the hall, viewing the stuffed Maori with distaste whilst tracing runic figures upon the plush carpet with the tip of her black parasol. Jones the troll scuttled away up the staircase, down which presently came Mr Ernest Rutherford. The chemist had a broad smile on his face.
‘Miss Wond, I presume,’ said he, tucking the lady’s card into the top pocket of his white work coat. ‘I have no idea what you must have said to Jones, but he is most eager to make you a cup of tea.’
‘I never take tea,’ said Miss Wond. ‘Except with the parson, of course.’
Mr Rutherford stopped dead upon the staircase, one foot hovering in the air. He had actually heard that, had he not?
Taking tea with the parson was a euphemism employed by the lower classes when discussing a sexual practice that even in these times of enlightenment could earn you at least six months’ hard labour if you were caught at it in the back row of the music hall stalls.
‘Excuse me?’ said Mr Ernest Rutherford.
‘Many of my relations are members of the clergy,’ said Miss Wond. ‘One must observe the social graces when one is in ecclesiastical company, mustn’t one?’
‘One must,’ said Mr Rutherford. And he lowered his hovering foot and continued down the stairs. ‘I understand from your letter that you wish to discuss certain sensitive matters. We must do this in private, I feel.’