The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (13 page)

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?

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.