The Abominable Showman

by Robert Rankin

  Sir Jonathan took from his pocket a monogrammed silver case containing cigarettes. Atomic Extra Longs. Virginia tobacco flavoured with radium. The very latest thing for the man-about-space. Oblivious to the NO SMOKING sign he lit up an Atomic and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling high above.

  Before him, upon the Venusian marble was an open copy of The Gentleman Adventurer, the magazine for ‘those who would venture above and beyond’. This publication dealt mainly with the goings-on above and beyond the reach of Earth’s atmosphere, although the society gatherings of the London season were amply covered.

  Sir Jonathan leafed idly through the pages. His golden eyes sweeping over this thing and the next.

  He paused a moment to read the latest news of the Congress of Detectives and Non-Detectives, Considering Huge Interplanetary Police Stations. A group of concerned ‘experts in the field of law enforcement’ who were holding their annual convention aboard The Leviathan this very week.

  Sir Jonathan, who although not strictly a private detective, as Barry had described him to the schoolboy now known as Lazlo Woodbine, was an expert in the field of law enforcement.

  Sir Jonathan was a toff and toffs mixed with other toffs, and some toffs, through the nature of being toffs, got themselves into all kinds of legal scrapes. Some of which even nepotism and bribery were found incapable of extricating them. Such toffs needed the help of a fellow toff to aid them during their sorrows. And Sir Jonathan would for a price (for the House of Brentford was now somewhat down on its uppers) and on a single condition. That the toff in question was actually innocent.

  For here was the balance plain in Sir Jonathan’s character. Whilst his Earthy side concerned itself with matters pecuniary, his Venusian half dwelled in the realm of altruism. Which made at times for interesting inner conflicts, which were not aided at all by Berty the beetroot.

  Berty will receive mention now, because Berty and his musings are pertinent. As the granddad of the schoolboy presently known as Lazlo Woodbine had informed him, in these particular nineteen-twenties man had knowledge of, and conversation with, his holy guardian angel. And as Barry was a sprout, Berty was a beetroot and Berty was a loquacious fellow and had often much to say to his host, Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  At times their relationship was a troubled one.

  This was one of those times.

  ‘Congress Of Detectives And Non-Detectives, Considering Huge Interplanetary Police Stations,’ chirruped Berty in the head of Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘Or to use its unfortunate acronym, COD AND CHIPS. A bunch of meddlesome Earthers intent on imposing the will of the British Empire on other worlds.’

  Sir Jonathan spoke through perfumed smoke. ‘It is not quite that,’ said he.

  ‘Look at the list of attendees,’ said the beetroot. ‘All the usual suspects.’

  Sir Jonathan perused the list, nodding as he did so:

  Mr Who, the Chinese criminologist.

  Digby Barton of Scotland Yard.

  Humphrey Gumshoe, the New York private eye.

  Dawkins the Simian Sleuth.

  Lady Agnes Rutherford, authoress and investigator.

  and

  Jack Hayward, a Dandy Highwayman, that many were too scared to mention. But who had mended his ways and opened the now fashionable Dandy’s Detective Agency.

  ‘A herd of the hopeless,’ piped Berty, ‘a parade of pompous prigs and waffling whiners. And a Chinaman and a woman too and even an educated ape.’

  ‘I have been asked to speak upon a topic of my choice,’ Sir Jonathan drew deeply upon his cigarette.

  ‘And you have chosen to speak on “The Giant Crab of Whitstable and other Anomalous Phenomena”.’

  ‘I am an acknowledged expert upon such subjects.’

  ‘Yes, but its –’

  ‘Cease and desist,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford and he la-la’d the famous music hall tune ‘Granny’s Imaginary Bottom’ to drown out further words from Berty the beetroot.

  And he licked his thumb and turned another page.

  TROUBLESOME WOMAN FOILS BANK ROBBERY ATTEMPT

  read Sir Jonathan. And:

  The female vigilante known as Lady Raygun appeared once more in the very nick of time to foil an attempt to rob Coutts bank in Piccadilly. The troublesome woman swung down from a telegraph pole, killing three of the robbers and –

  ‘Good grief,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘whatever next?’ and he turned another page.

  THE SEARCH FOR OUR LADY OF SPACE

  was a title that caught Sir Jonathan’s eye. He read aloud from The Gentleman Adventurer, much to Berty’s displeasure:

  Professor Mandlebrot, eminent theologian and cosmic theorist, will this coming Friday embark upon a scientific expedition to seek the being known as Our Lady of Space. Professor Mandlebrot insists that the lady in question is not a mythical creature, or an Elder God, as has been vigorously propounded by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Very Reverent Leonard Hawksmoor, but a ‘physical entity of profound wisdom and spiritual enlightenment, possibly several centuries of age.’ Professor Mandlebrot claims that through direct contact with Our Lady he will become at one with the Urseele, the original soul of God. We wish the professor Godspeed and eagerly await developments.

  ‘And he was never seen again,’ the voice of Berty boomed inside Sir Jonathan’s head.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said his lordship, turning a page then tapping a forefinger down. ‘The Poppette is to attend the celebrations.’ And he read aloud in a strident voice to drown out that of Berty.

  ‘Sophia Poppette, the space girl, will be a special guest at the Jubilee celebrations aboard The Leviathan, where she is expected to join the top table with Her Majesty Queen Victoria, the Prince Consort and entourage. The Queen’s own couturier has fashioned a gown for the Poppette that is expected to turn many heads.’

  ‘I do not see the attraction of that floozy,’ said the beetroot.

  ‘The Poppette enjoys the particular celebrity of being the first human child conceived and born in space. Right here upon The Leviathan. Her feet have never touched terra firma, she is unique amongst the tribe of Man. And quite a looker too.’

  ‘You’ll not get a sniff of that,’ said Berty. ‘She is the count’s fancy piece.’

  ‘Silence,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘Enough of your interminable chatter.’

  ‘I have your interests at heart,’ declared Berty. ‘I wish you only the best. Find yourself a wife and settle down. Forget about the Whitstable Crab and other anomalies nonsense. Cease chasing after Sophia Poppette and don’t get into dangerous situations.’

  ‘In a word or two, become dull,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  ‘And turn your back upon your scatter-brained chums,’ continued the beetroot. And get yourself a proper job and –’

  But his

  lordship la-la’d fit to burst, drowning out the beetroot’s words but bringing bad looks to the faces of fellow bibliophiles.

  ‘And please extinguish that cigarette,’ said a lady wearing the sheerest of silks and an ostrich-feathered hat.

  Sir Jonathan Crawford popped the lighted cigarette into his mouth, chewed upon it cheerfully and swallowed.

  ‘Fair lady,’ he said, as he rose to his feet, ‘might I escort you to luncheon?’

  The lady unfurled a fabulous fan and prettily peeped at his lordship.

  ‘I do not bite,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘Unless you expressly desire it.’

  The lady arose, the lord linked her arm and together they left for their luncheon.

  Many, many levels below in a dire canteen I beheld the bowl of gruel.

  Lukewarm, grey and noisome to the nostrils, my troubled gaze moved up from it and onto the face of the beadle.

  Unlike Dickens’ Oliver Twist, I would not be asking for more.

  ‘If you think I am eating this muck,’ I said, in a voice that precisely mirrored my disdain, ‘then you are sadly mistaken, my good man.’

  The beadle’s eyes bulged somewhat, his
whiskered cheeks grew purple and he rocked gently back upon his heels.

  ‘And furthermore,’ I continued. ‘My accommodation is quite unsuitable and unless reparations are speedily made I will direct my complaints to a higher source, namely my good friend the count.’

  I never saw the blow coming that time, but as I passed from consciousness I do vaguely remember Barry saying something to the effect that I didn’t seem to be getting the hang of undercover work.

  13

  Sir Jonathan Crawford deftly steered the young lady in the ostrich-feathered hat past the gaudy knot of toffs that lounged about the potted palms at the entrance to Orion’s Eatery.

  These toffs were Sir Jonathan’s friends and he knew each of them well. The foppish and foolish Lord Binky Hartington. John ‘Boy’ Betjeman, poet. Ian ‘the honourable’ Crichton and Michael Fenimore Acrington Attree, the scoundrel known as Atters.

  Boy Betjeman was holding court as Sir Jonathan passed them by.

  ‘I have been asked,’ said Boy, ‘to compose lyrics for a song to be sung at the Jubilee celebrations.’

  ‘Sung by whom?’ enquired the honourable Crichton, prising the cork from a champagne bottle and topping up the glasses of his fellows.

  ‘Some jazz lady,’ said the Boy. ‘Who sings with that chap Armstrong and his band.’

  ‘Spit it out then,’ Atters said. ‘Let’s hear the likes of it.’

  John ‘Boy’ Betjeman placed his filled champagne glass into the outstretched hand of Atters, assumed the classic poet’s pose, head held high and arms spread wide and bottom perkily poised, then spoke unto his fellows in the way a poet should.

  ‘It is called Nostradamus,’ he said. ‘And it goes in this fashion –’

  ‘Nost-ra-damus

  He said things that did alarm us.

  He wore vi-a-ble pyjamas.

  Nost-ra-damus.’

  ‘And?’ said Atters, helping himself to the Boy’s champagne.’

  ‘That is all I have so far,’ said Boy.

  ‘Famous,’ croaked Atters, employing the term so popular amongst toffs to express appreciation. ‘But “viable pyjamas”? I ask you.’

  ‘I toyed with “He rode about on twin striped llamas”,’ said Boy Betjeman, ‘but I preferred the pyjamas.’

  ‘As you always do,’ Atters returned the now empty glass and fell about into mirth.

  ‘Might I suggest the line “He made a living selling straight bananas”?’ asked the honourable Crichton.

  John ‘Boy’ Betjeman scribbled it into his notebook.

  ‘Here my dear,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford having located a distant table well beyond the sounds of toffly banter. ‘Might I push your stool in for you?’

  ‘I do believe it to be a chair,’ said the lady.

  ‘Later then,’ Sir Jonathan said, though few would believe he had said it. The lady was seated and then the lord too and introductions were made.

  ‘I am Sir Jonathan Crawford,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘third Earl of Brentford and champion bladesman, doncha know.’

  ‘Your reputation precedes you,’ the lady replied. ‘I am Lady Agnes Rutherford, authoress and investigator.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir Jonathan, biting his bottom lip. ‘That Lady Agnes, I see.’

  ‘That?’ enquired the lady.

  ‘You are an attendee at the detective’s convention.’

  ‘And you are a speaker,’ said Lady Agnes Rutherford. ‘Even out here in the great beyond, it is still a very small world.’

  ‘Some might say, intimate,’ said his lordship.

  ‘Some might well,’ the lady Agnes replied.

  ‘And you stay there until you are good and well,’ said the kindly nurse.

  I put on a very brave face, a tiny smile at play upon my lips.

  ‘Oh such a sweetie in his dear little sailor suit.’ The nurse gave my cheek a tweak and left me all alone in my hospital bed.

  ‘Priceless, chief,’ said Barry. ‘Important world-saving things to be done and you’re banged up in The Leviathan’s hospital ward.’

  ‘Banged up and all on my own,’ I replied and I wiped my smiling mouth with a white serviette. ‘And that luncheon of chicken, potatoes, peas and gravy that the nurse brought to me went down an absolute treat.’

  ‘Hm,’ went Barry the sprout.

  ‘And,’ I continued, lifting the cover of my pudding bowl and eyeing the portion of Treacle Sponge Bastard that gently steamed within. ‘I could see me having to be here for a number of days. At least a week, I would think.’

  ‘We do not have time for that,’ said Barry.

  ‘Precisely my thinking,’ I said to the sprout. ‘I am surprised that you did not reason it out for yourself. Or indeed read my thoughts.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Barry. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘I am supposed to be a boy-spy-detective, am I not?’ I said.

  ‘You are,’ said Barry. ‘You are.’

  ‘So I would not get much of that done down on level God-knows-how-deep, getting bullied about by those monsters, now would I?’

  ‘Well …..’ said Barry the sprout.

  ‘I would not,’ I told him. ‘But here, all alone, for there are no other patients, I can come and go as I please. “Having a little walk in the hope of getting my strength back” is probably how I will put it to the lovely nurse.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Barry. And ‘Fair enough too,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘I’ll have my pudding and then we’ll go out for a stroll.’

  He took a daily stroll about the ship. As would befit a captain, or the owner, of the vessel. At two of the afternoon clock he took it, and given the size of the mighty Leviathan he was not done by five.

  As Sir Jonathan took Lady Agnes by the little gloved hand and whispered words of outlandish flattery to her, Count Ilya Rostov, master of all he surveyed, passed them by at close quarters.

  Venusian sensibilities sent a cold chill rushing down Sir Jonathan’s spine. He swiftly called to a waiter for champagne.

  The count really did not look like a villain, anything but, in fact. He did have an amiable and avuncular quality. He waved at folk as he passed them by and blew the ladies kisses. He referred to his friends as his ‘chumrades’ and heartily laughed at their jokes, however bad.

  The count was of medium height and medium build and wore a long but unostentatious Russian robe and a big bearskin hat. The only real hint of his prodigious wealth was perhaps the snow on his high riding boots.

  This snow twinkled crystalline white, for it was formed from diamonds.

  ‘Skiddly boo,’ called Count Rostov, fluttering his fingers at the toffs who lounged about near to the potted palms and taking his leave of Orion’s Eatery.

  As ever at his side was his amanuensis and catspaw, the unspeakable Gurt. For a villain must have catspaws as certainly as he must have minions. Although many a pedant might say they were one and the same. Gurt was a catspaw in the grand tradition. A hunchback with a gammy dragging leg.

  Gurt’s job was to serve his evil master unquestioningly, to chronicle his master’s life and works uncritically and to fall into whatever trap his master laid for him, unwittingly.

  He fulfilled his duties with moral rectitude.

  And the count only beat him once a week and only then through respect of tradition alone.

  ‘Master,’ purred Gurt, as the count mooched along, for he rarely strode or marched. ‘Master, I have prepared the menus and wine lists for the Jubilee banquet. Would you care to give them a sneer and have me do them again?’

  The count ran his finger tip along a polished handrail and examined it with care. ‘A speck of dust,’ he said to Gurt. ‘Have the cleaner of this corridor severely thrashed.’

  ‘To within an inch of their lives?’ Gurt enquired, wringing his hands as he did so.

  ‘Just to unconsciousness,’ said the count. ‘I am of a lenient disposition this afternoon. Where is the Poppette to be found?’

  ‘As often as not in the G
reat Conservatory,’ said the unspeakable Gurt, dragging his gammy leg without comfort.

  ‘Then I shall visit her there, whilst you wait outside, composing paeans of praise to flatter me upon my return.’

  ‘My wish is only to serve you, master,’ fawned Gurt.

  ‘An ample serving of pudding,’ I said pushing my bowl aside and patting my belly. ‘Perhaps a little snooze before we go.’

  ‘Just try it,’ said Barry and he did a little wiggle in my head.

  ‘A sneaky stroll about the ship it is then.’ And I climbed from the bed and put on my dear little shoes.

  ‘I will lead the way,’ said Barry. ‘I know of a secret route by which we can reach the count’s private quarters. There you can –’

  ‘I must stop you there,’ I said. ‘I am sure your secretly-gathered intelligence regarding these matters is of laudable quality. But it is best that we do things my way.’

  ‘Your way, chief?’ and Barry let out a kind of strangled gasp.

  ‘Your help will at times be appreciated and when I have cause to ask for it I trust that it will be given without complaint.’

  ‘What?’ went Barry. ‘What?’

  ‘I am a key player in this cosmic drama,’ I said to the sprout. ‘I believe you used the phrase yourself, or one not entirely dissimilar. So as such I must be in command of the situation at all times.’

  ‘But, chief, but –’

  ‘But me no buts, young Barry,’ I said. ‘Let us be up and away.’

  ‘But…but…but…but…but…’

  But I left the hospital ward.

  Count Rostov left Gurt and entered the great glass house. The conservatory spread along the uppermost reaches of The Leviathan, an exact and full-sized replica of the Crystal Palace on the hill at Sydenham.