The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (16 page)

‘Leicester
Square gorn up in smoke,’ bawled newsboys. ‘Read orl abaht it. Terrible
conflagration. ‘Undreds dead. Anarchists blamed.’

‘Hundreds
dead?’ groaned Cameron Bell. ‘Say it isn’t so.’

‘Oh,
excuse me,’ bawled the voice from the street. ‘Only
two
dead, it’s a
misprint. Anarchists still blamed, however.’

The
dejected detective stretched and did loud
clickings
of the neck. He
scratched at stubble on his chin and arose with a grump and a grumble.

Beyond
the office window London was stirring. There were all the makings of another
hot day. Folk in pale linens were taking the air and a regiment of the Queen’s
Own Hussars rode by on magnificent greys.

Mr
Bell steadied himself at the window, returned to his desk and drank down a
remaining half-glass of brandy, then wandered off to change and wash and shave
and make himself decent.

At a
little after eight of the morning clock, looking well-scrubbed and neat in pale
linens of his own, Mr Bell was to be found marching in the direction of
Scotland Yard.

Over
the years, the great detective had cultivated many friendships within his
sphere of professional influence. He had helped out more than a few, and more
than a few knew he had done so. A certain chief inspector at Scotland Yard owed
Mr Bell many favours.

The
chief inspector’s name was Chief Inspector Case, and recently he had been
experiencing some difficulties. He had also recently been a commander, but he had
fallen from grace.

Although
on the outside dapper and well kept, with the military bearing of one who had
served his Queen and country in the Electric Fusiliers, the chief inspector was
a rather troubled man.

He
had recently taken to the belief that the blood of the Aztecs flowed in his
veins and as supposed proof of this demonstrated that he could crack walnuts
beneath his arm-pits and sing ‘songs of advancement’ in a tongue of his own
invention.

In
times past, such behaviour and beliefs might well have had the man consigned to
Bedlam. But as everyone nowadays did crack on about how enlightened were the
times, the chief inspector was left to his own devices with words from his
superiors being offered to the effect: ‘We do not care if you think you’re Monte-ruddy-zuma,
just as long as you solve some crimes every once in a while.’ Failure to do so,
it was hinted, would incur further demotion.

Having
gained entrance to Scotland Yard, Mr Bell sought out the office of Chief
Inspector Case and rapped a knuckle briskly on the door.

‘Come
unto me,’ called a voice from within. Cameron Bell sighed deeply and entered
the office. The chief inspector was sitting cross-legged upon his desk, and
upon his head he wore a crown made from folded newspapers, which he had adorned
with beer bottle tops. A gorgeous cloak of kiwi pelts was wrapped around and
about him.

‘Prostrate
yourself,’ said Chief Inspector Case. Cameron Bell gave a foolish curtsey.
‘That is all you are going to get,’ said he.

‘Bell,’
said the chief inspector. ‘It
is
you, is it not?’

‘It
is,’ agreed Cameron Bell. ‘Your powers of observation are, as ever, faultless.’

‘They
seek to destroy me,’ said the cross-legged sitter.

‘
They?’
asked Cameron Bell.

‘Powers,’
said the wearer of the paper crown. ‘Dark powers. They are all about us, you
know.’

‘I
know it all too well,’ said Mr Bell, ‘which is why I am here.’

‘They
say that I am mad,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘They say that I do not swim
with both feet in the water.’

‘You
are as sane as I,’ said Cameron Bell. Which worried him as he said it. ‘And I
come to you because you are all-knowing.’

The
paper crown bobbed as the head beneath it nodded.

‘I
wish to consult your records — those in the “unsolved” file, I think.’

‘That
is a very large file,’ said the sitter, snuggling into his cloak. ‘I don’t
think you should look at it. It might upset you.

‘That
is a very beautiful cloak,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have not seen its like since
the last time I visited the British Museum. Were you not engaged upon an investigation
there most recently yourself?’

‘The
filing cabinets over there will be the ones you want. ‘Chief Inspector Case
hugged at his beautiful cloak. ‘Help yourself’

Cameron
Bell surveyed the filing cabinets. They stood large and defiantly, as if saying,
‘Open us if you dare.’

‘Perhaps
I might speed up the process,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I encountered a woman last
night—’

‘About
time, too,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Jolly well done to you.’

‘Not
in that way. This woman presented a most singular appearance.’ A shiver ran
through Mr Bell as he recalled the brutal slaying of Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm’s
henchmen. ‘A most violent woman.

‘No
shortage of
them,’
said the chief inspector. ‘Take my wife, for
instance.’

‘I
would prefer not. This woman wore an armoured-brass corset affair and a black
rubber hood with—’

‘Round
glass eyeholes,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Oh no — not again. I hoped we had
seen the last of her.’

‘Then
you know who she is?’ Cameron Bell was most taken aback. This exotic creature
was known to the police and yet unknown to him.

Chief
Inspector Case climbed down from his desk and plodded to a filing cabinet, his
magnificent kiwi cloak trailing wonderfully behind him. He slid open a drawer
and tugged out a dog-eared file.

‘There’s
not much in it,’ he said. ‘It was before my time and yours, too. She did what
she did then went off-world, and she has committed a number of atrocities upon
Mars since then. But they are, thankfully, out of my jurisdiction.’

He
handed the file to Mr Bell, who seated himself on a visitor’s chair and opened
it up before him.

‘It
was in eighteen eighty-nine,’ said the chief inspector, ‘in Whitechapel. A
gentleman was found, horribly mutilated. His name was Graham Tiberius Hill.’

Cameron
Bell shook his head. ‘That name means nothing to me,’ he said.

‘A
relative of the then Prime Minister who was at that time under secret
investigation for certain heinous crimes committed the year before.’

Mr
Bell looked up at the chief inspector. ‘Not … ?‘ said he.

The
chief inspector nodded with his crown. ‘The Metropolitan Police’s prime
suspect — we have every reason to believe that Graham Tiberius Hill was Jack
the Ripper.’

‘And
this woman killed him?’

‘Most
horribly. You will see the rough sketch made by a Gatherer of the Pure who
swore he had seen her emerge from the alley where Mr Hill was so cruelly done
to death.’

Cameron
Bell rifled through the papers until he came upon the drawing. It was crude but
there was no mistake. He also came upon a photograph. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘A
wall,’ said the chief inspector.

‘But
there is nothing on it.’

‘Obviously
not, because a constable washed the writing off.’

Cameron
Bell sighed once again. ‘So what
was
written upon this wall?’

‘Words
scrawled in chalk,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Words that read —

LADY RAYGUN IS THE
WOMAN THAT

WILL NOT BE BLAMED
FOR NOTHING
.

‘Lady
Raygun,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Lady Raygun indeed.’

‘Indeed, indeed,
indeed, indeed, indeed, indeed, indeed.’

These
‘indeeds’ were spoken by the controversial cleric Cardinal Cox, for Cameron
Bell’s second port of call that morning was to the Bayswater residence of the
colourful clergyman. A residence filled with wonders of the East in a gorgeous
glittering clutter.

Indeed,
it could be said that Cardinal Cox was a man that would not be blamed for
nothing. Scandal attended to him as if a faithful servant, while outrage
followed on as might a spaniel.

‘Indeed,’
said the cardinal once more as he viewed with interest those items that were
placed before him.

‘Reliquaries,’
said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘I felt that they might interest you.

‘You
wish to sell them?’ Cardinal Cox rubbed large red hands together. Everything
about this man was large and red all over — his slippers, his raiments, his
turban and his big red face.

‘Where
is my catamite?’ he called, clapping those big hands in a loud smacking
fashion. A youth of Arabian aspect appeared at the open door.

‘Fetch
us some hashish, if you will, young Ahmed.’

The
boy departed, to return at length with a vast and beautiful hookah, which he
placed upon the Afghan rug beside the Persian pouffe.

‘A
bit early in the day for me,’ said Mr Bell, ‘but don’t let me stop you
indulging yourself’

‘Indeed
you will not,’ said the cardinal. ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed.’

‘Tell
me about the reliquaries,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

‘How
much do you want for them?’ asked the cardinal.

‘They
are stolen property,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

‘I am
well aware of that. So how much do you want?’

‘They
are not for sale — they must be returned to their rightful owners.

‘You
will have a long ride doing that, then.’ The cardinal attended to the minutiae
of lighting up the hookah.

‘And
why would I have a long ride?’ asked the detective, looking on with interest.

‘Well,
that one is straightforward.’ The cardinal pointed towards the smallest of the
three, a jewel-encrusted thing of gold with a tiny glass enclosure at the top.
‘That one has come from the British Museum.’

‘Indeed
it has,’ the detective agreed. ‘I was engaged by that worthy institution to
recover it. I have also, by chance, this morning solved the case of the missing
Maori kiwi cloak, but that is another matter.’

‘Then
let us not confuse each other with it here. The other two you have there are
not from this planet — one is from Jupiter and the other from Venus. A
collector’s dream to see the three together. You do not know the whereabouts of
the fourth one, I suppose?’ The cardinal knelt down and lit up the hookah,
sucked hard upon the mouth pipe then collapsed on the floor in a fit of
coughing.

‘A
fourth one, you say?’ said Cameron Bell, helping the cardinal onto his knees
and patting away at his back. ‘I was not aware that there
was
a fourth
one.

Cardinal
Cox composed himself ‘Sit yourself down,’ said he.

Cameron
Bell settled onto a nest of cushions, kilims and subcontinental quilts.

‘Tell
me all about them, please,’ said he.

The
large red man relit his hookah and took the tiniest of sucks. Breathing sweetly
scented smoke, he told a curious tale.

‘In
the days of way-back-when,’ said he, ‘before science had triumphed over
alchemy, it was believed that everything was composed of four elements in
differing proportions —earth, air, fire and water. One can now consult the
periodic table to test the inaccuracy of this medieval supposition. However,
although many elements are now known and scientifically understood, the
original concept of the four elements is not without its power, for a magical
power it is.’

Cameron
Bell groaned. ‘Magic, you say?’ he said.

‘These
are magical items,’ said the cardinal. ‘Or were, back in the days when folk
believed in such nonsense. Each was said to contain the
Anima Mundi
—
literally the World Soul — of its planet of origin, and each represents one of
the four elements. Mars is fire. Venus is water. Jupiter is air.’

‘And
Earth is earth?’ asked Cameron Bell. ‘So where
is
the fourth reliquary
kept?’

The
cardinal shrugged as he puffed. ‘Who can say? Perhaps it was broken up for the
jewels that bestudded it — each of these is worth a fortune. And upon second
thoughts I have no wish to purchase them. Venusians take most unkindly to their
holy treasures being looted. You will do yourself a great deal of good when you
return to them what is theirs.’

Cameron
Bell took up the Martian reliquary and peered into the little glass enclosure
atop it. Was that a flicker of flame he saw or just some trick of the light?’

‘And
the Earth one contains only earth?’ he said.

‘It
is believed to contain the very substance of God. Have you ever heard of the
Nazca Plains?’

‘In
South America? A high plateau carved with ancient patterns, if I recall
correctly.’

‘There
are other beliefs. Some hold that the Nazca Lines are the fingerprint of God,
left behind when he fashioned this world.’

‘A
fine tale,’ said Mr Bell, now wafting at the air about him in an attempt to
avoid any passive hashish-imbibement. ‘So I suppose I must conclude that these
items were stolen to order by some rich collector of outré paraphernalia.’