by Mark Gatiss
As the day wore on, and we began to radiate a mildly tipsy bonhomie, I allowed him to prise out of me the story of Miss Pok.
‘You sly dog,’ grinned Miracle. ‘What is she like?’
I waved a hand extravagantly. ‘A delight. Captivating. I was thinking of inviting her to your party. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Mind? I cannot wait to meet this paragon.’
‘You must promise to behave now, Christopher.’ I smoked my cigar contentedly. ‘You’ll think me foolish, I know, but there is something very particular about her. Uncommon.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, she drinks vermouth in the afternoons and has no fear of being in a gentleman’s company unchaperoned.’
‘Ten a penny at the Café Royal.’
‘Touché. But she pays to be with me.’
‘Pooh! She pays for her lessons, not your company!’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Do I detect more than the usual predatory instinct at work, Box?’ cried Miracle. ‘Can it be – never! You have fallen for her?’
I did not look him in the eye.
Miracle smiled. ‘I shall refrain from tormenting you further. Now! It is high time to get down to something like business.’
‘I suppose so,’ I sighed. ‘What have you to tell me?’
Miracle sat forward in his chair. ‘Professors Verdigris and Sash were at the same Cambridge college between 1866 and 1869. Star pupils of their intake, it seems, along with two others.’
‘Let me guess. One of them was Emmanuel Quibble?’
‘Quite so! How did you –?’
‘I have sources of my own,’ I smiled. ‘The other?’
‘Chap called Morraine. Maxwell Morraine.’
I nodded thoughtfully. Was this the fourth man in the photograph?
Miracle leant back on the dark red leather. ‘Their chosen field was something rather bewildering to do with the molten core of the earth. They formed some kind of research team. Went out to Italy.’
‘Italy, eh? And did they call themselves anything?’
‘Hm?’
‘The Verdigris Collective. Something like that.’
Miracle shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Do you know what happened to…what-do-you-call-him? Morraine?’
‘Apparently he went mad and died out there. Quibble, of course, rose to great heights.’
‘Indeed. Terribly hard to get an audience with the old man, from what I hear.’
‘Oh, nigh on impossible. Lives in Naples, I gather. Practically a recluse.’
‘Hm. I know you won’t let me down.’
Miracle gave a little laugh. ‘There’s a limit to what strings even I can pull, old man.’
‘Nonsense. I have the utmost faith in your ability to flatter the most Doric pillars of society to their very capitals. I can be in Italy for – what shall we say? Next Thursday?’
VII
THE VERDIGRIS MAUSOLEUM
I RETURNED to Downing Street to find a communication from the Domestics. The firm of Tom Bowler, Belsize Park, was apparently engaged in an unusual amount of activity at the dockside. Enquiries suggested that the firm specialized in the repatriation of Englishmen and Italians who had died abroad. Coffins were shipped over in packing crates (intrinsically valuable, it seemed, as they were returned, empty, to the point of egress, namely the port of Naples). I determined to have another nocturnal poke around, this time at the undertaker’s and, after sobering myself up with a pot of coffee, put on a black suit with a waistcoat of burnt-orange to do so. I stepped out into Whitehall where Delilah was drawing up in the firm’s cab. For the purpose, she had traded in her signature yellow frock for a cabby’s coat and gaiters.
‘Evening, Mr Box, hand where is we hoff to?’
I gave the Belsize Park address and we were away.
As we clattered along, I pressed my face to the window and closed my eyes. Night had come and the air was sickly with a yellow smog that covered the city like some monstrous slug-trail.
I tried to make sense of recent curious events. All clues pointed to Naples. Poop had died there and had foreseen catastrophic events. It was the place where that mysterious crate of Mr Bowler had been destined, the place where Sir Emmanuel Quibble, last survivor of the Cambridge Four was now in residence. But what would I find when I got there?
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I was jerked from my reverie by the sudden acceleration of the cab. Rapping on the ceiling, I was answered by the Delilah’s heavy features peering down at me through the hatch.
‘Beg, pardon, sir,’ she wheezed. ‘Hi believe we his being followed.’
I pulled at the heavy leather strap of the window and peered out. I had no clear idea of where we were but could just make out the silhouette of another cab, swaying alarmingly as it juddered around the corner.
‘How long has this been going on?’ I demanded.
Delilah coughed into her grubby collar. I could just catch the glint of the street lamps in her eyes as she swivelled round to look back at our pursuers.
‘Couple ha mile, sir. Hi’ve tried to throw ’im off the track but hit hain’t no good.’
I dragged the window upwards with a firm tug. ‘Do what you can then.’
‘Righto, sir,’ she answered brightly, relishing the challenge. ‘I could try to – look hout!’
I was conscious of a loud report from outside the cab, as though someone had stepped heavily on the surface of a frozen pond.
‘What is it?’ I demanded, peering upwards.
Delilah spluttered as though mortally offended. ‘’E bloody well shot hat hus, sir!’
This sounded a bit much. What murderous thug had I attracted now? I pressed my nose to the glass and did a quick reconnoitre as we rattled furiously along. I thought briefly of leaping from the carriage and taking Delilah’s place but instead turned my head to address her once more.
‘On, then!’ I cried. ‘Anywhere. Lose him!’
As the hatch thumped back into place, Delilah whipped up the horse with a mixture of endearments and obscenities. We lurched forward with renewed vigour and I was flung against the dark leather. As we tottered leftwards, the cab’s wheels gave an horrendous squeal and bumped twice over the kerb.
I tore off my coat and scrabbled at the lining, popping the excellent stitches (how that hurt me!) to reveal the small pistol I knew the Tailoring Domestics had concealed there.
Rocked back and forth by the motion of the carriage, I dropped on to my knees and placed the gun on the floor. In the queasy atmosphere of summer-fret and gas-light, the gun’s barrel-less body glowed like a silverfish. I grabbed at my left boot and swiftly removed the long, slim tube secreted in its own compartment within the elasticated side.
As carefully as I could, the cab bucking over the cobbles, I screwed the tube on to the front of the pistol. Within moments, I was in possession of a very effective, long-range weapon.
Delilah’s muffled curses and whip-cracks rang out sharply as I rammed down the window with my elbow and leaned out over the sill.
Behind us, the other cab, seemingly all of a piece with its driver, materialized like a ghostly ship. I could see nothing clearly, merely a suggestion of bowler hat and ulster. Then our pursuer’s hand flew up, there came a yellowy flash and the report of a gun.
I ducked back into the cab and then levelled my own pistol, loosing off a couple of shots as we careered over a crossroads, almost colliding with a third cab. There were garbled shouts of protest, the whinny of horses, but we tore on past, street-lamps blurring like phantom dandelion clocks.
The pursuing cabman fired twice more, the crack-crack of his pistol swamped by the dense curtain of fog.
Suddenly, my cab smacked against the pavement and I was tossed to the floor of the carriage. I swore as my leg scraped the rough surface and I felt the fabric of my trousers rend. Struggling to right myself as we reeled ahead, I managed to get one barked knee on to the seat and, le
aning up, pushed open the hatch in the ceiling.
‘Try to keep us steady –’ I began, then pulled myself up to peer through the hole. Delilah had sunk back, her corpulent face a mask of agony. She gripped her chest with a gloved hand.
‘’E got me, sir!’ she gasped, then suddenly pitched sideways, diving into the fog like an uncertain swimmer into the Serpentine.
I reached out to grab her, but it was too late.
I knew I had only moments before the vehicle would career out of control. I kicked at the door and swung myself out and on to the body of the cab, hanging on for grim death.
Chancing a glance behind me, I saw the murderous driver of the other cab taking aim once again. I gained a quick foothold on the top of the door and then swung myself upwards, falling into the empty driver’s seat. At once, I began lashing mercilessly at the horse, keeping my bare head low as another shot whistled past. I turned and replied with a volley of three but still the cab bore down.
We were heading down some endless, snaking high street made tunnel-like by the enshrouding smog. I had a vague impression of the blazing windows of public houses and the blank façades of shut-up shops.
Some young fellow pulled his sweetheart from our path just in time to prevent her being crushed beneath the wheels. I heard her cry out as my assailant fired again, the bullet splintering the woodwork of the vehicle just by me.
An arch of some sort loomed up on my left: two fat pillars, fringed with ivy. I had to get off the main highway to secure the general population. Between the pillars stood a pair of iron gates, thankfully open. With a lash of the whip I urged my horse through and into the gaping darkness beyond.
Looking back, I saw that my pursuer had not been discouraged and was only a hundred yards behind. As he swung through the arch, he too was lost in the black of the night. Nevertheless, I had surprised him and, as I urged the horse onwards, I tried to take stock of my situation.
All through the frantic pursuit, my mind raced. Who was behind this murderous attack? Could this have something to do with the mystery on hand? Or perhaps it was that murderous fool Major Strangeways Pugg, still set on avenging his lovely Avril.
No longer on cobbles I appeared to be travelling over some kind of muddy track or pathway. The road was as narrow as a footpath and branches lashed at the sides of the cab as I urged it forward.
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Jerking round I fired the last of my bullets behind me and then almost fell from my perch as something reared out of the Stygian gloom.
It was an angel.
I fancy my face must have been a pretty sight but I recovered quickly. An angel it was, but stone and sacred to the memory of some poor bastard as far as I could make out. I thrashed and swore at the horse. The rapid appearance of a dozen stone crosses and then a massive, ugly mausoleum confirmed that I had passed into some great municipal cemetery.
The pathway forked right and I drove the coach on, meanwhile feeling in my other boot for the clip of bullets I kept there. It was a devil of a job trying to reload the pistol and still prevent the cab from crashing into the gravestones that projected from the wet ground like scattered dragon’s teeth. I had just managed it when I was startled again, this time by the sudden appearance of my enemy right ahead of me.
Somehow he had cut me off. Perhaps he knew this necropolis well. It was as though some hellish beast were bearing down on me, the driver’s scarf flapping behind him like a pennant in a gale.
I dragged at the reins and managed to steer the cab to the left but it was too late. The two vehicles clashed like galleons and I heard the bodywork rend and protest as we ground against each other on the narrow lane.
But then suddenly I was past him and still going!
The black night exploded into unnatural light as I loosed off another two shots. My assailant seemed to stagger in his seat as his cab retreated but in an instant he had turned and fired too, taking the nose off a rather comely stone cherub in the process.
I now had some advantage in that my enemy’s cab was rattling away from me in the wrong direction. There came a frantic whinny from his horse as he flogged at its flanks.
‘Hyar! Hyar!’
He was turning, or attempting to. Meanwhile, my own vehicle had not slackened its pace and was thundering heedlessly through the hollows of the cemetery. Mausoleums streamed past like the town-houses of the dead.
What to do? According to the manual – or to Lady Cecely Midwinter’s Espionage Academy on the Old Kent Road where yours truly had been apprenticed – I should abandon the cab and secrete myself amidst the thick gorse that enveloped the memorial stones. If my would-be assassin came back this way, I could pick him off from my hiding place among the angels.
These thoughts were flashing across my mind when suddenly the mist thinned and I saw the enormous outline of a grand building only a matter of fifty yards ahead. It was a bleak-looking chapel of some kind, its towers sparkling eerily, its great black doors securely barred against all-comers and I was heading straight for it.
Wrenching the reins until I felt the hot leather tearing at my palms, I tried to steer the carriage away from the chapel. The horse gave a great snorting cry and lurched right. I reeled from the impact as the side of the cab slammed against the old wooden doors of the building. There was a tremendous booming crash and I felt the whole cab splinter and the ground hurtle up towards me.
My chest hit the iron-hard mud and I felt the wind comprehensively knocked from me. Dazed and sick I lay on my front, staring miserably ahead as the pursuing cab drew up alongside the chapel. The figure, swathed in ulster, scarf and brown bowler, seemed smaller now as he clambered down from the driver’s seat. In one gloved hand he held his pistol.
I tried to roll over but the breath was only coming back to me with agonizing slowness. Just ahead and out of reach lay my own pistol, the long barrel protruding from a clump of weeds. I flung out my arm and tried to drag myself towards it. The figure advanced remorselessly, cocking his weapon and reaching up with his other hand to pull down the scarf from his face. Was it that vengeful Fury, Pugg? There was a hole the size of a tanner in the shoulder of his cape but no sign of blood. Had I winged him or merely ruined his coat?
Lungs bursting, I tried to sit up and sling myself into cover.
‘Damn it,’ I gasped. ‘Who are you, you ruddy maniac?’
The figure stopped and seemed to consider me.
Then, echoing across the cemetery with the eeriness of a banshee came a cry: ‘Hello! What’s going on? What are you doing there?’
Two men, holding yellow lamps high above their heads hove into view to my left. Their appearance had a startling effect on my attacker. Swiftly, he slipped his pistol into the folds of his ulster and raced back towards the cab, pulling himself up into the driver’s perch. He whipped up the horse and rattled away.
The lamp-bearers ran towards me, as welcome as real angels. ‘Good Lord, are you all right, sir?’ said one. His companion, heavily bearded and mean-looking was less forgiving. ‘What the blazes has been going on?’ he demanded.
Ignoring him, I struggled to my feet and grabbed for my pistol. I aimed at the retreating cab, but in moments it was out of range. I turned on my heel and wrenched the lamp from the bearded man’s hand.
‘Here! What are you doing?’
‘His number,’ I hissed. ‘The cab number. Can you see it?’
Nothing was clear, though, in the sickly yellow light and the cab soon vanished into the murk.
I stood for a moment, swinging the lamp round in an arc and illuminating the devastation I had wrought. My cab was almost cracked in two. The horse stood nearby, placidly chewing grass at the foot of one of those broken columns that tell of life cut off in its prime. Happily, that life had not been mine.
‘’Ere!’ cried my bearded rescuer. ‘You was bloomin’ shooting! What the hell do you think you’re about? This is a place of rest!’
The cemetery watchmen took me to a little cabin wh
ere I was treated to a tot of rum by the kinder of the two – Lukey by name – and furious glares from his mate, name of Bob. I assured the good burghers that all expenses would be met. In the morning I would despatch the Domestics to set about hushing things up, not least the body of the faithful Delilah who was probably still lying undiscovered with a bullet between her shoulder blades on some dreadful suburban roadway. I dragged my ragged, filthy and exhausted self to my feet and was moving towards the cabin door when a notice pinned to the wall caught my gaze.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘That’s the interments list, sir,’ said Lukey.
‘Is it, by George. And that name, fourth down…?’
‘The Verdigris Mausoleum, sir.’
‘What a coincidence,’ I mused. ‘An…acquaintance of mine goes by that name. I wonder if it is his family tomb. Would it…would it be an awful imposition to ask to see that mausoleum?’
The bearded one positively glared at me and cleared his throat of a noisome expectoration that landed in a hissing green lump on the coals of the fire. ‘The Verdigris? Indeed it would! After what you’ve been up to tonight, you’re damned lucky we ain’t called the bobbies!’
Lukey laid a hand on the other’s arm. ‘Now then, Bob. Watch that temper of your’n. You said there was summat funny about that funeral in any case.’
I adopted a sombre expression. ‘Gentlemen, I am investigating certain irregularities connected with that funeral. It is more than likely that you have given invaluable service to the Crown. I need you to show me that mausoleum. At once!’
With much ill-grace Bob finally assented and a few minutes later the three of us stepped back out into the humid night.
Our feet crunched on the gravel pathways, the lantern held aloft by Bob throwing a funnel of yellow light into the oily gloom.