The Vesuvius Club

by Mark Gatiss

  ‘Lot of girls died for you have they?’

  ‘Only those who cannot live for me.’

  She rested her chin on a gloved hand. ‘You got cold eyes, though. Blue as poison-bottles.’

  ‘Really, you must desist or I shall consider running away with myself.’ I placed my hand on hers. ‘What’s your name?’

  She shook her head, blowing out a cloud of smoke and smiling. ‘I don’t like mine. I’d much rather hear yours.’

  I fiddled lightly with my cuff-link. ‘Gabriel,’ I said, adopting one of my noms de guerre. ‘Gabriel Ratchitt.’

  The nameless lovely took this in. ‘That’s an angel’s name.’

  ‘I know, my dear,’ came my murmur. ‘And I fear I may be falling.’

  II

  ON THE EFFICACY OF ASSASSINATION

  BOTH the night and my blood were far too hot to waste time journeying home, so I got to grips with my new acquaintance in a slimy alley at the back of the Pomegranate Rooms. I have a vivid memory of her raised skirts brushing against my chin and the feel of her very lovely bosom beneath my fine, white hands (I’ve mentioned them). As I plunged on, my eye caught a bill pasted haphazardly to the wet brickwork. Nellie Best was playing at the Collins Music Hall. I might just have time between this coupling and my next appointment to make the second house.

  Nellie was on fine form and so was I, hearing her belt out ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’ as I strolled into the upstairs bar-room and topped myself up on hock. Groping for a seat and tripping irresponsibly over the fetching white ankles of a dozen young ladies, the hall became one great wonderful blur of gaseous colour and light. I felt as though I had tumbled head-first into one of Sickert’s delightfully déclassé canvases. The hollowed shadows enveloped me in grimy red plush, Nelly Best’s canary-yellow crinolines flaring before my grinning phiz like sunbursts.

  After several choruses too many of ‘Oh What a Silly Place to Kiss a Girl’, I tottered out into the balmy night and a cab.

  ‘Piccadilly,’ I cried, banging my cane rather unnecessarily against the roof.

  Images are removed here

  Shortly afterwards, I was deposited in front of the Royal Academy of Art. By day I am naturally used to entering premises by the front door but, that night, I took care descending the treacherously corkscrew steps down to the tradesmen’s entrance.

  Delilah, having finished her work at the dining rooms, was there to greet me with her broken-toothed smile; she ushered me through into a corridor tiled in black and white parquet. I threw off my cloak and hooked my hat carefully on to the horns of a stuffed ibyx head, whose startled expression was not at all dissimilar to that of the late Everard Supple.

  At the very end of the room was a small and awfully discreet door, inlaid, quite exquisitely, with blond marquetry in a pattern of peacock feathers. I went through the door and into a panelled hall lit by sputtering gas-jets. There had been some excitable talk about having the electricity laid on but I had used my meagre powers to veto this. I liked the atmosphere of the little journey. Somehow the flames in their bold brass stanchions felt like primitive torches in a secret tunnel. We all know the attraction of secret tunnels. When I was a boy, there was nothing in the world I wanted to discover more. It’s quite rewarding finally to have one at the office.

  I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and whistled a few bars of Nellie Best’s best as I reached the end of the silent corridor. It terminated in a kind of ship’s wheel, studded at the tip of each spoke with a porcelain button rather in the manner of bath taps. I tapped in a little sequence of letters corresponding to some code or other and span the wheel to the left. Another discreet door, though not nearly so prettily carved, sprang open just to my right. Why they couldn’t just let me knock, I’ll never know.

  I passed through into a gentlemen’s lavatory. Planting my rump (avec trousers, you understand) on the cold seat in one of the cubicles, I folded my arms and exhaled impatiently. It was a further five minutes before I heard the sound of footfalls and the opening and closing of the cubicle door next to mine. Finally, with a grim protesting shriek, the metal wall dividing the cubicles began to rise.

  Sitting on the next po along, impeccable in frock-coat and imperial collar, was the dwarfish form of Joshua Reynolds. My boss; three foot something in his stockinged feet and ever so jolly.

  ‘Hello, Lucifer,’ trilled the little fellow. He wriggled on the seat of the lavatory and pumped my hand. His tiny patent leather shoes glistened in the gas-light.

  ‘’Evening,’ I rejoined. ‘Still can’t run to a proper office, eh?’

  Reynolds gave an impish laugh. ‘No, no. You know how we like it. Cloak and dagger, my boy. That’s what we thrive on. Ha-ha. Smoke and mirrors.’ His eyes were bright and black in his face like raisins in dough. ‘Now then,’ he continued, rubbing his pudgy hands together. ‘The…er…business is concluded?’

  I nodded and smiled my wide smile. ‘It is.’

  ‘And the…er…package has been…sent to…Sebastopol?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘And was the…transaction…er…accomplished without undue…’

  ‘If you mean have I killed old Supple, then yes, I have,’ I cried. ‘Shot him in the chest and watched him die like the filthy dog he was.’

  The little man sniffed and nodded. He seemed to suffer an eternal cold in the head.

  ‘A modicum of thanks would not go amiss,’ I ventured.

  Reynolds laughed explosively. ‘What would you like me to say, my boy? That England owes you a great debt?’

  ‘That would do to begin with. Hmm…“The nation will be forever and profoundly grateful.” That sort of thing. But will the nation ever know it? To them the Honourable Everard will remain a gallant servant of the Empire –’

  ‘Shot defending his own home by a vicious gang of roughs,’ put in JR.

  ‘Is that what we’re saying?’

  ‘So I gather.’

  I shrugged lightly. ‘Yes, he will remain every inch the gallant lad rather than the atrocious anarchist with plans to explode bombs under the foreign secretary that we know him to be. To have been.’

  ‘Well, well, my boy,’ said Joshua Reynolds with a twinkle. ‘That is why we call it secret service.’

  Ah, now. The cat’s out of the bag. There you are, having paid your few shillings at Mr Smith’s emporium at Waterloo Station (if my memoirs ever make it out of the cistern), fully expecting the entertaining ramblings of the great Lucifer Box, RA, foremost portraitist of his age (a man must have ambition) and what do you discover? That in between my little daubs I was living a double life!

  It was a connection humble enough in origin. For reasons that are too painful and private to relate I’d ended up owing a favour or two to our family solicitor. Joshua Reynolds (for it was he), despite being small, turned out to be something very big in His Majesty’s Government. Strictly behind the scenes, you understand, and most secret. I liked to flatter myself that he really couldn’t manage without me.

  He peered at me now with a strange expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

  ‘You’re looking positively consumptive, dear heart,’ he said at last.

  ‘How you wound me! The Beardsley style is so unfashionable.’

  ‘Eat a little more!’

  ‘I find it difficult to manage on the pittance you pay.’

  The little man sniffed back a drop of moisture from his nostril. ‘Oh, now you’re being cruel. Your late papa would never forgive me if I let you starve.’

  ‘Were I more at liberty, I could get by very well on my artistic commissions.’

  He reached across and patted my hand. His own was dimpled fatly like that of an overfed baby. ‘Of course, of course. But my little problems do provide a more regular salary, eh? And not too much effort required on your part.’

  I smiled, admitting his point. ‘Effort only in the service of pleasure.’

  It may have seemed rash of them to give the job to an ab
errant character like me but I cannot deny how much I relished it. The world was my studio, and they laid on the apprentices to clean the brushes. Say there was a visiting Turkish despot to be bumped off. Furnished with the dry details, the artistic part would be left to me. I’d formulate a little plan with the Domestics (Delilah, she of the daffodil frock was one of the best) and off we’d toddle. The Ottoman offender would be taking a stroll in some pleasure garden and, if the night were a dark one, a swift dagger through the ribs might be enough. I would go off on my merry way and the Domestics would move in, eradicating any trace of my presence. A day or so later, the stabbee would be found a hundred miles away (in, let us say, Newcastle-under-Lyme), the victim of a ‘crazed malcontent’. The malcontent – usually the body of a vagrant retrieved from the local mortuary, dressed up with a dagger clasped in his rapidly stiffening digits – was sometimes found there too. Within twenty-four hours both corpses would be under-lime themselves. Oftentimes, though, something a shade more baroque was called for and Delilah and I would roll up our sleeves and embark on a coffee-fuelled plotting session that was rather cheerfully like cramming for an examination. It was all terribly well done and it lent one an immunity from even the vaguest threat of prosecution that was quite giddying. Artistic licence to kill, you might say.

  Joshua Reynolds, who really was the most frightful old woman (well, no, he really was a dwarf, but you follow me?), glanced at me as I sank back against the cold lavatory wall and grinned at him. For once there was a flicker of something less pleasant in those bright black eyes.

  ‘Enthusiasm is all very well, my dear Lucifer, but we mustn’t get sloppy, must we? We must always remember that nasty business of the Bow Road.’

  I bristled at this but held my tongue. As I say, some things are painful and private.

  I was a bit done in after all the evening’s excitement, but it was clear the boss had more work for me. He blew his button nose and retrieved a file from his case. As he examined its contents, I examined my fingernails. In the morning, I thought, I would take a steam bath.

  ‘You got my note?’ he said at length.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t checked my correspondence. I was running late, you see, what with the murdering.’

  The dwarf gazed in a puzzled fashion at the contents of his handkerchief. ‘Do you know Poop?’

  ‘Poop?’

  ‘Jocelyn Poop. Our man in Naples. We received a wire from him some days ago.’

  He tossed me a square of buff paper. I read it over swiftly.

  VERDIGRIS SASH. MOST URGENT. DETAILS FOLLOW.

  I looked up. ‘Instructions to a curtain maker?’

  ‘Verdigris and Sash were both highly respected scientists.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘They died. Within a day of each other.’

  ‘Did they indeed?’ I tapped the telegram against my chin. ‘And what more does Poop have to say?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He’s vanished.’

  ‘Like me to look into it?’

  Joshua Reynolds batted his eyelids. ‘I’d be so grateful.’

  I took a file of papers from my erstwhile employer and, with a curt nod, stepped out of the lavatory. Out of habit, I washed my hands.

  Once back out into the humid night, I made my way towards Downing Street. I bade the bobby on duty outside Number Ten a cheery ‘goodnight’ then let myself into Number Nine.

  I know, ostentatious, isn’t it? But somebody has to live there.

  III

  THE MYSTERY OF THE TWO GEOLOGISTS

  MY occupancy of Number Nine is a long and not particularly edifying story. Once upon a time, my late papa’s people owned the land whereon Downing Street was built and though HMG grabbed most of it, they couldn’t get their mitts on that one house which, through some stubborn whimsy of the Boxes, was to remain in the family in perpetuity. And now, as last of the line, Number Nine had come to me. More than anything I wished to be shot of the place but the terms of my inheritance were strict and so impecunious old Lucifer occupied three rooms, more or less, on the ground floor of one of the grandest houses in London. The rest of the pointlessly huge edifice was shuttered, sheeted, quietly rotting and likely to remain so unless I started to sell a lot more pictures. On the positive side it was awfully handy for town.

  I awoke to find myself fully dressed and on top of the bed, surrounded by a litter of files on the missing Poop and the late Professors Sash and Verdigris. I must have drifted off in either a haze of data or a haze of hashish, I really cannot recall.

  I was about to call for my man Poplar, when I remembered that he had taken a bullet in the back three weeks before on the southbound platform of a Serbian railway station (no silver cigarette case, you see). I sighed hugely. I’d certainly miss old Poplar and his passing left me in the unfortunate position of requiring a new manservant. Taking a small propelling pencil from my waistcoat pocket, I scribbled the words ‘Get Help’ on to my shirt cuff as an aide memoir. It was to be hoped that my laundress would not interpret this as the desperate plea of a kidnapped heiress hidden amongst my evening clothes.

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  A manservant was one of the perks of the job, yet Joshua Reynolds seemed in no great hurry to furnish me with a new one. If things didn’t improve soon I was faced with the grisly prospect of getting in Delilah to rinse out my undergarments.

  I bathed in preparation for my Turkish bath and sent a note round to one of my pals expressing the desire that he join me there. The pal in question was a fiercely handsome, unfailingly cheerful lad called Christopher Miracle. To look at, you would think him one of those fellows who go stamping off around the world in a pea-coat having peninsulas named after them. In fact, he was one of the most famous portraitists in England and was said to possess an extraordinary patience and delicacy of touch. He had not been born into wealth but had earned it (imagine!) and the gulf that existed between our financial situations resulted in the kind of slow-burning resentment that fuels the best friendships. As a result of his status, he was quite staggeringly well-connected and I had a fancy he might know something of my missing professors.

  The summer day was bright as a flare and stultifyingly humid. I was hard pressed to notice any change in atmosphere between the outside and the interior of the Wigmore Street baths where I later found myself.

  As blond and enthusiastic as a Labrador puppy, Christopher Miracle bounced startlingly out of the wreaths of steam and thumped me on the back as a token of his affection.

  ‘Box, old man! How are you? Looking distinctly peaky, I’d say. You getting enough nosh?’

  I made a place on the warm marble beside me. ‘You’re not the first to speculate.’

  He extended his long legs before him, the white towel around his waist pulling as taut and neat as a tablecloth.

  ‘Is there tea?’ he cried, smoothing back a lock of wet blond hair. ‘I must have tea!’

  He snapped his fingers with the assurance of a born team captain, face already reddening in the heat, and sat with one leg up on the marble, as solid and impressive as the Velázquez Mars (having mislaid his helmet). Next to his frame, I did seem positively emaciated.

  We sipped at small glasses of sweet-smelling tea brought to us by a capaciously girthed Turk and fell into happy conversation (or gossip if you prefer), denigrating the pompous and the talent-less who we felt were being preferred over us. Merely assassinating someone’s character made for a pleasant change.

  ‘By the way,’ said Miracle suddenly. ‘I’m having a party. Or a ball, if you want to be grand. In honour of the return of Persephone, goddess of the summer. Possible you could come? Or are you over-committed?’

  ‘I collect invitations on the mantelpiece behind a bust of the late Queen. Just now I fear Her Majesty will be pitched forward into the fireplace. I’d never miss one of your parties, though, Christopher. I trust there will be a superabundance of flesh?’

  ‘I’m counting on it. I may invite one or two from my drawin
g class.’

  ‘Drawing class?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? Oh, I’ve been taking a class for ladies in one of those mechanical institutes down in Chelsea. A weekly thing. Requires little effort on my part and has several benefits. Perhaps you should give it a bash.’

  I sank back on the seat and rested on my palms. ‘Benefits, eh? Let me guess,’ I mused. ‘Firstly, hmm, yes, it keeps you in regular contact with just the kind of idle rich who are liable to commission pictures from you.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Further enhancing your laurel-strewn reputation,’ I said gazing thoughtfully at the steam-clouded ceiling. ‘Secondly, every now and then one such patron turns out to be a real stunner and game for a lark.’

  Miracle laughed explosively. ‘Now, really, Box.’

  ‘Thirdly, it allows you to put a little back into society by encouraging the artistic endeavours of those less talented than yourself.’ I smiled broadly. ‘I have, of course, put these benefits in order of priority.’

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  ‘Your reasoning, Box, is perfectly sound,’ said Miracle with a grin. ‘I allow twelve of them in at any one time,’ he said. ‘Probably for no better reason than it makes the occasion feel vaguely like a coven.’

  ‘With you as the presiding daemon?’

  ‘Naturally. They have tea and there’s a little chatter and not a little swooning around yours truly, then my pupils set to work scrawling away quite appallingly with their charcoal at whatever I place in the centre of the room. It seems they have come to regard my classes as the highlights of their existence.’

  I nodded to an orderly who came forward with a brass bowl of cold water. I splashed my face and ran a hand through my hair.

  ‘What a shining light you are, Miracle!’ I ejaculated. ‘How come that booby Holman Hunt never did your portrait in that hideous style of his?’