The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (47 page)

‘If
we are discovered,’ said Lord Brentford,
‘I
will take full
responsibility. Your name will not be mentioned. All will rest upon my
shoulders. All.’

Darwin
smiled up at his lordship. ‘Did I make a good plan?’ he asked.

‘Yes,
you did,’ his lordship said. ‘A very fine plan indeed.’

The
scent of bananas wafted into the Garden Room upon a gentle breeze and there was
a sense of serenity, a sense of peace and also one of joy.

There was little
joy to be found on the streets of London. Streets heaped high with piles of
rotting frogs. Within two days the stench was appalling and a grim miasma made
the Empire’s capital a place to be avoided.

The
only upside to all this terrible downness was that
The Times
newspaper’s
Political Columnist had at least found the solution to the mystery.

‘The
frogs were undoubtedly dropped upon London from airships under the control of
anarchists. That none were witnessed in the clear blue sky offers a posthumous
and grudging tribute to the ingenuity and cunning of that most evil of men, the
Masked Shadow, who must surely have planned this outrage months before he met
his fitting end. The airships flew very high indeed, their underbellies painted
sky blue.’

Cameron
Bell read of this as he sipped his tea aboard the
Brighton Belle.
It was
an explanation, that was for certain, but he doubted whether it was
the
explanation.
And he noted, ruefully, that the third and fourth of the biblical plagues had
come hard on the second.

The
rotting frog corpses had soon bred an infestation of lice and of bluebottles.

If
there was any encouragement to be felt, it was that Mr Winston Churchill had
mobilised the Army and had sworn to have the frogs all cleared by the end of
the week.

‘Good
old Mr Churchill,’ said Cameron Bell, toasting with his teacup.

He
was dressed today in a sober grey morning suit, with matching topper and
gloves. He swung his slim malacca cane that sheathed a slender blade and
whistled as he alighted from the Brighton train and went upon his way.

The
cabman drove Cameron Bell through the elegant Regency streets of Brighton, all
around Hove and Hangleton. At length, Mr Bell tired of the sly detours and
announced that Brighton was well known to him and if he did not reach his
destination at Roedean in five minutes he would shoot the cabman dead.

The
cabman, who had been considering going via Shore-ham, stirred up his horse and
took the cliff road towards Roe dean.

Cameron
Bell recalled his holidays in Brighton.

Happy
days in much more innocent times.

With
less than a minute to spare, the cabman dropped Mr Bell before the gates of the
famous school for young ladies and departed grumbling for his lack of a tip.

Mr
Bell trudged up the very long drive and presented his card at the door.
Presently he was led to the office of the headmistress, which he knocked upon
before politely entering.

A
lady in tweeds with a fox-fur stole and hair of turquoise blue sat behind a
magnificent desk inlaid with many tropical woods, smoking a short cheroot.

She
examined the card that Mr Bell presented and waved him into a chair.

‘Well,
Mr Pickwick,’
she said, reading aloud from the card, ‘when you wrote to
ask for an interview, I did not know whether I was to be the subject of some
elaborate hoax, but my eyes do not deceive me and I can see most clearly that
you are who you represent yourself to be.’

‘At
your service, madam,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I am, as I told you in my letter,
presently in the employ of the eminent author Mr Charles Dickens.’

The
headmistress made a somewhat wistful face. ‘A fine and most handsome fellow,’
said she.

‘And
one, it would appear, most anxious to make your acquaintance.’

Mr
Bell had never fully understood just what it was about Mr Dickens that women
found so appealing. But as his present piece of deception relied upon it, he
was pleased to see that the mention of the author’s name had the required
effect.

‘Mr
Dickens has heard of
me?’
asked the headmistress, colouring slightly at
the cheeks before dragging
very
deeply upon her cheroot.

‘I
think it must be one of the major reasons why he wishes to write the book —
Roedean:
A History of the World’s Most Notable Academy for Young Ladies.
Would you
consent to having your photograph taken with Mr Dickens, for the flyleaf?’

‘Oh
yes, most certainly.’ The headmistress all but swooned.

‘He
would be thrilled,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Would
you care for tea?’ asked the headmistress.

Cameron
Bell said that he would.

A
bell was duly rung and tea was duly brought.

Then
poured.

Then
drunk.

The
headmistress dunked a ginger biscuit in hers. ‘So what exactly would you like
me to tell you?’ she asked. ‘Your letter spoke of “essential research”.’

‘Matters
of a confidential nature,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Matters regarding a certain
headmistress and a certain pupil.’

‘Nothing
was ever proved,’ cried the headmistress. ‘I was found innocent of all charges.’

‘Naturally,’
said Mr Bell. ‘Of course, I do not allude to your good self, but rather to a
former headmistress who was dismissed for “unspeakable cruelty” and a student
with whom she still associates.’

‘Black
sheep,’ said the headmistress. ‘I know of whom you speak.’

‘Mr
Dickens asked whether you might supply me with the details, in order that he
may “rework” them in a fashion that would not reflect badly on the school. It
has to be “warts and all”, I’m afraid, but the warts can be made over with
rouge.

‘I
understand,’ said the headmistress. ‘It is a sorry tale. I can speak in
complete confidence to you, can I not?’

‘Absolutely,’
said Cameron Bell, a-crossing of his heart. ‘I am Mr Dickens’s man. I have his
trust and that is no small thing.’

‘Very
well. She should never have been made headmistress, not with her reputation.
The best thing they ever did was to shuffle her off to Mars, where she can do
no harm.’

‘And
she calls herself Madam Glory,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Not
there, she doesn’t. There she calls herself by her true name.

‘Which
is?’ asked Mr Bell, taking out a notebook and a pencil.

‘Princess
Pamela,’ said the headmistress. ‘Twin sister to Her Majesty. But you cannot
print
that,
of course.’

‘Of
course,’ said Cameron Bell, maintaining the most expressionless of faces whilst
trying to control the turmoil within.

Princess
Pamela was Madam Glory!

The
Evil Mistress to Lavinia Dharkstorrm.

‘And
the student,’ said Mr Bell, in a calm and measured tone. ‘This—’ and he made a
pretence of studying his notes ‘—this Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm?’

‘A
bad one indeed,’ said the headmistress. ‘So curious, though, as her sister was
such a nice girl.’

‘Ah,’
said Cameron Bell. ‘There was a sister.’

‘The
one to whom the terrible thing occurred. The business with the face. Quite
horrible.’

Cameron
Bell looked up at the headmistress. ‘This sister,’ said he. ‘Her name would
not, by any chance, be Violet?’

45

iolet,’
said the headmistress. ‘What a lovely peaceable girl was Violet.’

‘The
nature of the accident?’ Cameron asked.

‘It
was no accident,’ said the headmistress. ‘But must we dwell on such awful
matters? The Upper Fifth’s hockey team beat the girls of Hove High last week,
with only two hospitalised.’

‘Would
you by any chance have a class photograph showing the Dharkstorrm sisters?’
asked Mr Bell.

‘Possibly
in the main hall. That would be the class of eighty-seven, I believe. So tell
me please, Mr Pickwick, what is Mr Dickens
really
like?’

‘I
have heard him described as
delicate,’
said Cameron Bell,
surreptitiously perusing his pocket watch.

‘Delicate,
as in his health?’

‘As
in his disposition, if you will.’ Cameron Bell raised a knowing eyebrow. The
headmistress discerned the knowingness of it.

‘You
mean … ?‘ said she.

Cameron
Bell tapped his nose. ‘In popular parlance,’ said he, ‘Mr Dickens bowls from
the gasworks end.’

‘No!’
cried the headmistress. ‘Outrageous.’

‘It
is between you and me.’ Mr Bell now winked lewdly. ‘We wouldn’t want dear
Charlie to end up in Reading Gaol like that Willy-Woofter Wilde did, would we?’

‘This
interview is over!’ cried the headmistress. ‘Kindly leave my office at once.

‘But,
madam.’ Cameron rose to his feet and bowed to the lady in tweed. ‘I hope this
will not influence you regarding the book.’

‘I do
not wish to have the school associated with such a matter. Please be gone, I
want to be alone.’

‘As
you wish.’ Cameron Bell bowed smartly once more, then took his leave of the
office.

When the door
had closed upon him, the headmistress took up the earpiece of the brass
candlestick telephone and spoke into its mouthparts.

‘Operator,’
she said, ‘get me Waxlow two-nine-double-one.

There
was a pause, then a voice spoke at the ear of the headmistress.

‘Ah,
dear,’ said the tweedy body, ‘I felt that I should give you a call. It might be
nothing, or perhaps it might be everything. I have had a fellow here
representing himself as Mr Pickwick and asking questions.’

Words
came to her along the telephone line.

‘Yes,
I recall. You said to inform you if anybody of this description ever paid me a
visit. Well, he has.’

Further
words passed into the lady’s ear.

‘Yes,
I answered all of his questions as you instructed me to. His interests lay with
you and Madam Glory.’

A few
further words.

And
then …

‘I
understand, mistress,’ said the headmistress, replacing the telephonic earpiece
in its cradle.

In the corridor,
Mr Cameron Bell removed his ear from the door and pencilled the telephone
number Waxlow two-nine-double-one into his little notebook.

‘An
excellent morning’s work,’ he whispered, slipping away to the hall.

‘A Mr Gilbert
and a Mr George are waiting in the hall, your lordship,’ said the boy whose
name was Jack. ‘Should I ask them to come through?’ And then the boy whose name
was Jack cried out, ‘Lord love a duck!’ when he spied what lay beyond the chair
in which Lord Brentford sat.

‘Fetch
the blighters in, Jack,’ said his lordship. ‘And don’t feel obliged to be
polite to them.’

Jack
saluted and marched away, soon to return in the company of Mr Gilbert and Mr
George.

‘What
an atrociously mannered young hobbledehoy,’ said Mr George. ‘You would not
believe what he just called us.’

And
then he and Mr Gilbert were heard to say, ‘Lord love a duck.’

For
they too had spied out that certain something.

It
rose like the hoard of Montezuma, a glittering golden heap of this and that,
the other, too, and many things besides.

‘My
goodness me,’ said Mr George.

Mr
Gilbert nodded and said, ‘Heavens.’

Lord
Brentford rose languidly from his chair. ‘Thought I’d have a bit of a clear-out
of the loft,’ said he. ‘See if any of the old solid-gold family heirlooms were
still boxed up in there.’ He made expansive gestures towards the ample pile,
which rose to almost touch the ornate ceiling. ‘Surprising what you don’t throw
away,’ said his lordship, making now a careless gesture. ‘What would you say is
the current market price of gold?’