The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (32 page)

‘Try
and bribe an officer of the law, would you?’ crowed Chief Inspector Case.
‘We’ll add that charge to the one of attempted murder by spaceship.’

‘Well
done, sir,’ said a constable, striking down the Governor of the Martian
Territories with his truncheon. ‘You certainly solved this one pretty smartish.
If you will accept the compliments of myself and my fellow officers, you are a
regular Cameron Bell.’

Cameron Bell was
taking tea at the Ritz. No longer clad as a chef was Cameron Bell. In a suit of
pale linen now sat the detective — a suit off-the-peg, it was true, but one
that fitted well.

The
beard had been shaved away by his favourite barber, giving him that baby-faced
look that just-shaved men with hairless heads so easily carry off.

A
young and inexperienced waiter who had welcomed him as Mr Pickwick and enquired
after the health of Sam Weller
[17]
had
been summarily cautioned. Tea was being served by a turbaned Sikh.

Mr
Bell had before him the file from Scotland Yard. The big and bulging file with
the name LADY RAYGUN printed large upon its cardboard cover. Mr Bell leafed
through this file, whistling now and then as he did his leafing.

This
woman had been most busy during the year that Mr Bell had spent boxed up in a
cellar. The number of underworld figures that she had brought to justice was
quite extraordinary. Although “brought to justice” was not a particularly
accurate way of putting it — “brutally slaughtered” was more appropriate. She
had methodically, coldly and dreadfully carved her way through London’s most
dangerous criminals. Mr Bell was very much impressed.

He
flicked back to the very first page of the file: the murder of Graham Tiberius
Hill, Jack the Ripper as possibly was.

Then
there had been a gap of ten years before she began once more her one-woman
campaign of summary justice. And after she had dealt with the East End
bare-knuckle fighter and the unconvicted poisoner who had threatened the life
of Cameron Bell on the night of the British Show-men’s Fellowship awards dinner
and dance, she had made a regular weekly sortie into the more dangerous areas
of London to seek and destroy the villains lurking there.

And
she had gone about it— ‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘In alphabetical
order.’ He delved backwards and forwards through the assembled papers. She was
methodically working her way through Scotland Yard’s filing system.

‘Someone
on the inside, then,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

Inside the
Marie
Lloyd,
Mr Ernest Rutherford seated himself on a comfortable cockpit couch.
‘Who will pilot this ship for us?’ he asked Miss Violet Wond.

Miss
Wond was adjusting flyer’s goggles beneath her black veil. ‘I will fly the
spaceship,’ she said. ‘Just tell me where to land.’

‘Oh,’
said Mr Rutherford.
‘You
will pilot the ship?’

‘Do
you have any objections to that?’ Miss Wond took hold of the joystick.

‘None
whatsoever, I suppose.

‘Then
tell me where you wish me to fly this ship.’

‘It
has to be dropped down into a siding on the Circle Line but it must be done at
night, when no one will see it happen.’ Mr Rutherford mimed a tricky landing.

‘Then
we have several hours that must be killed.’

‘I am
sure there will be a Wiff-Waff table somewhere aboard, if you would care for a
game.

‘I
would care for a game indeed,’ said Violet Wond. ‘But not one of Wiff-Waff, I
am thinking.’

‘I am thinking,’
Lord Brentford said to Darwin as the electric conveyance, moving in a gentle
rhythm on its rubbered wheels, pressed on towards Syon House, ‘that I will soon
be needing the bedpan again.’

Darwin
the once-more-monkey-butler viewed his aristocratic employer. The sharing of
lordly bananas he favoured, but
not
the business with the bedpans. He
opened his mouth to remonstrate with Lord Brentford, but then thought better of
it. He would keep the secret of his special gifts until some time that was
suitable. The shock Lord Brentford might experience upon hearing his monkey
butler reply to him in the Queen’s English could at this particular moment be
too much for the broken, bandaged fellow spread out so helplessly upon his
pile of pillows.

Darwin
viewed the bedpan and then the injured lord. If duty called, then he would heed
its calling.

Cameron Bell
called presently for his bill. He graciously paid it, took up the file and left
the restaurant.

But
he did not leave the Ritz. He entered the foyer and enquired at the reception
as to whether any rooms were presently available. Upon learning that one was
and that the price for the night was not above his purse, Mr Bell signed the
register and was led to a splendid room.

‘I
will seek more humble accommodation upon the morrow,’ said he as he blew into a
speaking tube to order champagne from below. ‘But tonight a little indulgence,
perhaps. A trip to the music hall. Some light entertainment. Things of a
frivolous nature. Lady Raygun will not easily be brought to book. So tonight,
as once more I am all myself, I shall enjoy the city I love, dear old London
Town.’

At the Royal
London Spaceport a single craft stood on the landing strip. Within this craft a
couple embraced most passionately.

A
gentleman’s fingers sought a corset’s fastenings. A lady’s felt for buttons to
release.

Mr
Ernest Rutherford had never made love in a spaceship before. He felt utterly
confident, however, that he would thoroughly enjoy the experience.

Septimus Grey
was not enjoying the experience of being forcibly detained in a Scotland Yard
cell. He was bitterly bewailing his lot to a Gatherer of the Pure who had been
incarcerated for seeking the pure of the Queen’s dogs at Windsor without the
appropriate licence.

‘I
will have my revenge!’ cried Septimus Grey. ‘And don’t think that I won’t.’

‘Damn
and blast all coppers!’ said the Gatherer of the Pure, a big and burly fellow
with a horrid broken nose. ‘Come the revolution we’ll have all their heads on
the block.’

Septimus
Grey kicked out at the door then hobbled about in pain.

‘You
are a fine young gentleman,’ said the burly and broken-nosed one. ‘A very
handsome fellow, it would appear.

Septimus
Grey sank down on the only bed and rubbed at his damaged foot.

‘I
could give that a little rub for you,’ said the unlicensed Gatherer. ‘What
about a little kiss and a cuddle?’

Constables
heard the shriekings of Septimus Grey. But they were very busy constables and
so did not have time to go and see just what he was shrieking about.

In an unhallowed
corner of Highgate Cemetery, something evil shrieked. It shrieked the barbarous
names of those who never aloud should be called. And naked ladies danced by
candlelight. Lavinia Dharkstorrm danced amongst them, mauve eyes glowing
brightly in the gathering of night.

There
appeared to be much of an erotic nature occurring upon this hot July evening in
the year of eighteen ninety-nine.

Some
of it joyful, some not, and some just plainly hideous.

31

ardinal
Cox’s catamite had gone for a healthy swim in the Thames at Kew. The cardinal
was knitting socks for soldiers of the Queen. He was making slow progress,
though, as his most recent delivery of hashish had been of a particularly
potent blend. Some of the socks had two foot-holes and others none at all. When
a knock came at the door of his Bayswater dwelling, he gladly set his needles
aside and called, ‘Please enter indeed, indeed.’

The
door swung open, as doors will do, and in came Cameron Bell.

‘By
the Lord, indeed indeed indeed,’ cried Cardinal Cox. ‘Cameron Bell, as I live
and breathe and do much more besides.’

‘It
has been a while,’ said Mr Bell.

‘A
while, good Bell? It’s been a year — we thought a sorry end had come to you.

Cameron
seated himself upon a Persian pouffe and viewed the cardinal’s handiwork. ‘I
have been away upon business. Secret business. I have, however, been back for a
month and thought I would look you up.

Cardinal
Cox gazed up towards a calendar a-hanging on the wall. ‘‘Tis August, I see,’ he
said. ‘Saint Artemus, patron saint of pantomime dames, is the saint of the
month.’

‘Would
not December be a more appropriate month for such a seasonal saint?’ asked
Cameron Bell.

‘You
would think so,’ said the cardinal. ‘But who am I to fathom the vagaries of the
calendar—maker’s craft?’

‘Who
indeed,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Is this a sock or a hat for a three-eared donkey?’

‘That
one
is
a hat,’ said Cardinal Cox. ‘But tell me, please, why are you
here? Much as I do enjoy your visits, I tend to find our conversations a trifle
one-sided, with you asking all the questions and me providing all the answers.

‘There
will be no change today,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘No, I thought as much.’ The
cardinal sighed. ‘There is, however, a great change coming, Mr Bell. There are
signs and portents in the Heavens. The Astrological Columnist in
The Times
newspaper
speaks of the End of Days. There is some alarm upon Venus, I understand —
something to do with a planetary alignment that will occur at midnight upon the
final day of this century. All the planets arranged in a single line pointing
directly to the Sun. A once-in-a-million-years event, or so I am assured.’

Mr
Bell picked up a sock of such gross deformity as to make him sick at heart.
‘When last we met,’ he said, ‘I was in possession of certain reliquaries.’

‘Three
of the four,’ said Cardinal Cox. ‘I well remember that.’

‘And
knowing well your sacred texts, you will therefore also be aware of what is
prophesied to occur should all four reliquaries be brought together in an
unhallowed place.’

Cardinal
Cox made the sign of the cross, lifted his rosary to his lips and gave it a
passionate kissing.

‘Should
this blasphemy occur,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘what might we expect to experience?’

‘That
evil would be set free upon the fields of Men.’ The man of God looked hard at
the detective. ‘Am I to understand,’ he said, ‘that
you
have allowed
this to occur? That the three reliquaries in your possession, under your care
and protection, have been reunited with the fourth of their kind and conveyed
to a place of unholiness?’ The cardinal’s voice had been rising in pitch and
volume as his red face grew even redder and his eyes became most round.

‘Regrettably,’
said Cameron Bell.

‘Regrettably,
man?
You will be the death of us all.’

‘Assuming,’
said Mr Bell, guardedly, ‘that these reliquaries
are
what they are
purported to be and not merely some manufactured medieval fakes.’

Cardinal
Cox was puffing and panting and looked upon the point of passing from
consciousness. ‘They are real enough,’ he cried. ‘My God, man, what have you
done?’

‘Please
don’t rub it in,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Things have been difficult, to say the
very least.’

‘Spaceships,’
said the cardinal, making the face of one who had been granted enlightenment.
‘As old Father Noah led two of every kind into the ark, so must we gather up
likewise and load all into spaceships. Then, when the Time of Terrible Darkness
comes, we can flee to the stars, seek out a new world and start all over
again.’

‘I am
sure that will not be necessary,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

‘Are
you?’ asked the cardinal. ‘Well, that has set my mind at rest.’

‘I’m
glad,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘I am
joking!’
shouted Cardinal Cox. ‘Probably the last joke I will ever
manage.’