The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (14 page)

‘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.