The Vesuvius Club

by Mark Gatiss

I was dog-tired but pressed on, unsure of what, if anything, I might find.

  The Verdigris family tomb was about the size of a small cottage, done in the familiarly dreary style of Corinthian columns and arched roof. A pair of massive bronze doors were set in the centre, a thick, well-oiled padlock strung between the door handles like a fob-chain across the waistcoat of a prize-fighter.

  ‘There,’ barked Bob the lantern-carrier. ‘Can we now get back to our business?’

  I moved towards the mausoleum and craned my neck to make out the family name, picked out in black against the white marble.

  I assumed the masterful tone that comes so easily to me. ‘Quickly, man, the key!’

  ‘Now hold on a moment –’

  ‘Give him the key, Bob!’ wailed Lukey.

  Cursing, the burly fellow began to fiddle with the huge bunch of keys at his waist.

  ‘Hurry!’ I urged.

  At last he selected a long, spindly specimen and, grunting with the effort, shifted his belly forward so he could insert it into the lock.

  As soon as the tumblers clicked, I dragged at the chain and hauled it to the ground.

  ‘The lantern, Bob!’ I hissed. ‘Give it to me!’

  So saying, I grabbed the thing from his hand and, dragging open the doors, plunged into the mausoleum.

  Inside the air was suffocatingly stale. The grim black oblong of a new coffin stood out boldly on its shelf against the homogenous dust-grey boxes that abutted it.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ I commanded, pulling at the head end of the coffin.

  ‘’Ere!’ cried Bob, entering the building.

  ‘No time to explain!’ I cried shrilly. ‘Get the coffin on the floor and get the lid off.’

  ‘Do as he says,’ said Lukey. ‘He’s on to something.’

  Together, Lukey and myself pulled the coffin to the dust-thick floor, then I began to look about for something to prise open the lid.

  ‘My God, if the family find out about this –’ murmured Bob.

  ‘Never mind that,’ I barked. ‘Hold the lantern high.’

  I swung round and then stopped as my eyes alighted on half a dozen wooden chairs, stacked in the corner and presumably for use at funerals. Without hesitation I grabbed at the top chair and smashed it to pieces on the floor. From the debris I retrieved a chair leg and with this began to hammer away under the coffin lid. After ten or twelve blows, the lid gave with a nasty squeal and splintered across.

  ‘Pull it apart!’ I cried. ‘Open the thing!’

  Lukey stepped forward and, grasping at the wood, wrenched the lid away. Bob glided forward from out of the shadows, the queasy yellow lantern light flooding the macabre sight before us.

  ‘Well, bless my soul!’ whispered Lukey.

  For within the coffin was revealed a cloth dummy, its innards stuffed with straw, its eyes and mouth merely crude stitching like that on some common scarecrow.

  ‘Ha!’ I cried triumphantly. ‘Exactly what I expected to find!’

  Which was a bloody lie but there you are.

  VIII

  THE MAN IN THE INDIGO SPECTACLES

  I KNOW what you’re thinking. Resurrection-ists! Body-snatchers once more at work in old London town! Had the good professor (and his erstwhile colleague – for a search of Sash’s tomb the next day revealed the same result) been made away with by wall-eyed, whisky-breathed anatomists to be displayed and skewered at the Whitechapel Hospital? Well, no. Very probably not. At least, I shouldn’t have thought so. This was the twentieth century, after all.

  No, it seemed altogether more probable that Tom Bowler Esq. lay behind this bizarre enterprise. The Belsize Park premises were immediately raided but somehow the jolly mortician had avoided the Domestics and stolen away like a street-Arab in the night. I was sure I knew where to run him to earth and booked passage on the next departing vessel to Naples without waiting to hear whether Miracle had worked his charms on old Quibble. I would leave at once. Well, almost at once. There was still the little matter of Miracle’s summer ball. Business, of course, as I needed to confirm my appointment with Miracle, and perhaps a little pleasure.

  Images are removed here

  My friend’s parties were something of a legend. In fact, Miracle’s gorgeous Belgravia house had been the scene of my poking of Avril Pugg the previous December. Christmas is a time for giving, after all. I found I was looking forward to this ball immensely. It would be a welcome distraction from the problem in hand but I would also be escorting the delectable Bella Pok and could impress her with statements of the ‘I fear I must away to the Continent this very night!’ variety.

  There had been no time for another drawing lesson but we had been in constant communication via letter and cable. I had broached the ball and she had been delighted to accept. Might I be permitted to call on her? No, she would prefer to call at Downing Street. Would eight o’clock suit?

  I spent much of the late afternoon selecting a flower for my lapel. Joe Chamberlain had made orchid-growing awfully fashionable and the delicate purple flower I selected as a button-hole set off my pale complexion most appealingly. Not quite ready to admit I was still without a servant of any kind, I opened the door to Bella myself – a delirious vision in crimson – turned her round immediately and helped her back into the cab.

  As we clattered along I could see how thrilled she was at the prospect of the party. Her eyes blazed and her expression was almost wild as she turned to me.

  ‘Will I not be awfully out of place, Mr Box?’

  I took her gloved hand. ‘My dear, you will outshine them all.’

  ‘And Mr Miracle. What is he like? They say he’s very handsome.’

  ‘No doubt they do. You’ll like him, I’m sure.’

  Curiously, though, when we arrived at Miracle’s house, of our host there was no sign. Instead, the party seemed to be under the direction of Lady Constance Tutt-Haffenschafft, a friend of Miracle’s and quite the old hand at throwing a function like this.

  Lady Constance – of Austrian stock and the widow of someone awfully grand in trans-Atlantic telegraphy – was one of London’s more unusual hostesses. She was a genuinely warm and congenial old soul who had survived the Tay Bridge disaster and, as a consequence, had developed a morbid fear of railway engines. To everyone’s eternal embarrassment, she was wont to impersonate steam trains at the most inopportune moments. It was like Miracle, who didn’t give a fig for convention, to take her under his wing when the rest of society had shunned her.

  Glittering with jewels, Lady Constance barrelled towards us, swathed in taffeta. ‘Ach! How delightful to see you, Lucifer!’ she gushed. ‘Do you know where young Miracle is hiding? He is not here! Choo! Choo! I arrive early, yes? To help in the preparations, but where is the boy? I do not know. So – Choo! Choo! – I have to take charge! But who is this? Who is this flower?’

  ‘Lady Constance Tutt-Haffenschafft,’ I said. ‘Miss Bella Pok.’

  ‘Miss Pok! Enchanted. En – choo-choo-chanted.’

  Bella stepped back a little, blinking in surprise. Lady Constance gave a quick little smile. ‘You are in your choice of companion most fortunate, my dear Lucifer,’ she enthused in her guttural croak.

  ‘And I in mine,’ said Bella, glancing in my direction.

  I glowed with pleasure.

  ‘I had no idea you would be accompanied,’ said Lady C, teeth glinting. ‘Pok. An unusual name. Choo! Choo! You have come far?’

  ‘Tonight, no. But I am Dutch by birth.’

  ‘I trust you did not come to London by one of these steam trains?’

  Bella shook her head. ‘No. By boat.’

  ‘Thank God! The train is the devil’s play-thing! Even now I hear them! Chuff! Chuff!’

  Lady Constance pressed her hand to her forehead for a moment then exhaled as though steam were forcing its way out of her big nostrils. The moment, it seemed, had passed.

  ‘Forgive me. Now do go off and get yourself a little drink. I’m afraid I must make free
with Mr Box for a moment.’

  I bowed to Bella and, with an amused smile, she plunged off into the ballroom, soon lost to sight amongst the miasma of silken gowns and black cut-aways.

  ‘You are very naughty,’ said Lady Constance, pinching my arm.

  ‘I am?’

  ‘You know very well that your being London’s most alluring bachelor is the principal reason why so many unattached young ladies come to Christopher’s parties. Choo! You are meant to come alone.’

  She giggled and it ran like a tremor through her portly frame.

  I patted the old sow’s hand indulgently. ‘I am still very much unattached, my dear Lady Constance and, besides, you know there is only one woman in the world for me.’

  I gave her the kind of saucy look that would keep her enthralled for another twelvemonth. Eyelids fluttering bashfully, she batted her fan lightly against the silk-faced lapels of my suit. ‘Ach! You flatterer! Choo! Choo! You know I have purchased the most glorious new gown. Perhaps I could sit for you again…?’

  This was good news. I had painted her perhaps a dozen times, all for excellent remuneration. During our sittings, for some reason, the railway mania abated and she fell into glorious, blissful silence.

  Looking towards the crowd in the ballroom, Lady Constance took my arm and began leading me in. ‘But you have done wonderfully, Lucifer. This girl Pok. She is like a flame. So beautiful!’

  ‘I must concur with you there.’

  ‘And you are fond of her, yes? I could see it at once when the two of you stood together. I must have every detail! I am starved of gossip! Huff! Now, we must hurry and disengage your Miss Bella from those old goats in there before her virtue…choo!…is entirely compromised.’

  The ballroom was hung about with paper lanterns and summer flowers. Chattering faces, reflected to the infinite by the huge quantity of gilt mirrors, looked out at me as I sauntered towards Bella. I stepped across the threshold and the old thrill lit up my innards. What did these blandly respectable folk know of me? Could they tell that beneath my crisp white gloves were fingernails that had so recently scrabbled in grave-dirt? Could they guess for even a moment that I was about to embark on a perilous mission that might save their very way of life? Of course not, but what did that matter? At that moment, the guilty pleasure that comes from leading a double life coursed through me like salts.

  I caught sight of Bella once more.

  She sat: a splendid curl of long scarlet silk, wrapped about with a stole of Arctic fox. An ugly young pup with unwashed hair hanging to his collar stood to her right, jabbering away.

  She gave a little start as I appeared and clicked my heels.

  ‘Bella,’ I said.

  The greasy fellow swung towards me with a questioning look.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ I said. ‘Lucifer Box. I have come to rescue my friend Miss Pok from your miserable attentions. Shall we, my dear?’

  I extended the crook of my elbow. She took it and rose with a small smile, leaving her beau blustering in fury.

  ‘You are rather a terrible person, Lucifer,’ she said.

  ‘You’re the second person to say that this evening.’

  ‘And certain to have a bad end,’ she added.

  ‘It comes of having a bad beginning. You didn’t need rescuing?’

  ‘Of course! He was so dreary and had breath like a spaniel.’

  ‘Well, it was my duty. And my right. You are, after all, my partner for the evening.’

  She glanced towards me and the chandeliers glittered in her violet eyes. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Then let’s have some cham and then a dance. Quickly, now, I can see Lady Chuff-chuff heading our way and the band have struck up a polka.’

  So, in the sweet heat of the evening, we whiled away a very pleasant hour or so, conversation and blood quickened by Mumm. Bella’s gaze was locked on mine, and as we swirled effortlessly around the ballroom, I fervently wished myself free of all responsibilities. Must the dread burden of saving the Empire always fall on me?

  I was standing with my back to the room when I saw Bella glance over my shoulder. A little shiver prickled up my spine and I turned and saw a queer-looking fellow standing at the hearth.

  He was a very tall, barrel-chested man in spotless evening dress, standing with legs apart, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his white waistcoat, nodding and occasionally smiling tightly at some pleasantry. Thick, oily curls, streaked with white sprouted from his massive head. Perched upon his prominent nose was a pair of curious, indigo-hued spectacles. He seemed ill at ease and was constantly flipping his watch from his waistcoat.

  Almost as though he sensed my looking at him, the great head flicked upwards, the light turning his spectacles a flashing white.

  ‘Good Lord,’ I said. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘That is the Duce Tiepolo,’ said Lady Constance, appearing at my side with further champagne. ‘I met him once before in Biarritz. I had heard he was in town.’

  ‘Who?’ I glanced almost furtively at the imposing figure by the fireplace.

  ‘He is an Italian duke,’ said Bella. ‘I have read about him in the society columns.’

  ‘One of the discoveries – choo! – of our oh-so-dear Mr Miracle,’ trilled Lady Constance. ‘How he dotes on us stray dogs.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘That’s why he likes me so much. This one doesn’t look like a stray dog, though.’

  ‘Oh, he is, to Christopher, like royalty, my dear boy. Tiepolo is the last of a dying scion. His people, they fought, oh most bravely against the Garibaldi fellow back in the sixties – chuff! – but his family were all sent into exile when the…what do you call it?…the Rissole…the Risorgan…’

  ‘Risorgimento,’ said Bella softly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Constance. ‘When they came in.’

  ‘He strikes quite a noble figure, does he not?’ observed my beautiful companion.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I mused. ‘Another one with a penchant for hard-luck cases.’

  ‘You would like to meet him, yes?’

  ‘Why not,’ I said.

  So we were led over and into the presence of the great man.

  ‘Your Grace…’

  The Duce turned slowly towards us, the deep lines at the corners of his eyes creasing together.

  ‘Aha! Lady Constance! How delightful!’

  The train-fearer was delighted to be remembered. After an exchange of pleasantries, I stepped forward and he inclined his head slightly at the sight of me. It was like being observed by some great patient snake. The lenses of the indigo spectacles prevented even a hint of his expression from being visible.

  ‘This is Mr Lucifer Box,’ said Lady Constance. ‘The famous painter.’

  ‘Oh, you flatter me,’ I oiled. ‘Your Grace.’

  I bowed and clicked my heels. He did likewise.

  ‘Tiepolo,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I do not know the province…’

  ‘One of the more ancient duchies,’ he said, with a smile. The voice was quiet but assured, like a great and well-maintained engine using but a fraction of its true power.

  He turned to Bella.

  ‘Miss Bella Pok,’ announced Lady Constance.

  He took her hand in his great paw without hesitation. ‘I’m afraid, your Grace,’ she cooed, ‘that I know very little of the history of your country…’

  ‘Oh, my unhappy country!’ said the Duce, raising his hands palms outward and smiling in mock-anguish. ‘But now, here, is not the time to be remembering old sorrows. Perhaps if you would do me the honour of dining with me…?’

  Bella’s eyes flashed.

  I moved with the speed of a jealous panther. If you’ve ever seen one, you’ll know. ‘Your Grace,’ I interrupted, ‘I would consider it a great honour if you would consent to sit for a portrait.’

  The Duce’s mouth pinched in displeasure. ‘This is impossible, alas. I am leaving most soon for the Continent. Besides, a painting…’ He gave a little shrug. ‘I was saying to our fr
iend Mr Miracle – where is he by the way? – is not painting most…old-fashioned?’

  Lady Constance leant forward. ‘The Duce is a photographic enthusiast.’

  ‘Is he, by George?’ I said, nettled. ‘Well, in that case I should hate to bother him with such a trifle as a portrait in oils.’

  Bella shot me an odd look.

  ‘You are going to the Continent, you say, your Grace?’ I said airily.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Back to Italy?’

  The great man’s face darkened.

  I put my fingers to my lips as though to hush them. ‘Of course not! How silly of me! They wouldn’t take too kindly to seeing anyone from the old days, would they? Where do you spend your exile?’

  ‘Well, if you will excuse me, Lady Constance,’ he began. ‘Miss Pok…’

  ‘I have myself some little knowledge of those days,’ I interrupted. The champagne was, I fear, beginning to tell. ‘My father told me all about it. Italy was in a parlous state back then, Bella. Wasn’t really Italy at all, to speak of. Ruled by the Frogs, the Spanish, even the ruddy Austrians – saving your presence, Lady C.’

  The Duce gazed levelly at me. ‘It was a troubled time. But we could have survived as we were. If not for Signor Giuseppe Garibaldi…’ ‘You may know the biscuit,’ I said in an undertone to Bella. ‘He pulled the country together, didn’t he, under King What’s-his-name. Yes. I’m off there tomorrow myself, as a matter of fact. I’ll send them your regards, hmm?’

  The Duce’s lips set into a grim line. ‘You will excuse me. I must…that is, I…’

  He seemed genuinely put out. Making a little bow to the ladies, he melted away into the crowd.

  ‘Well!’ said Bella.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I thought you were rather rude to that poor wanderer.’

  I flashed a cheeky smile at Lady Constance and she, giggling girlishly, waved back at me. Then I took Bella by the elbow and steered her towards the balcony. ‘My dear Bella, these pompous so-called aristos are all alike. It won’t do him a bit of harm to be reminded that he’s the ex-Duke of an ex-duchy. He’ll go home and kick his valet in all probability, but that’s scarcely our concern. Now, I suggest a little air to clear away the fug of his rhetoric. Besides, I found that I didn’t take to the idea at all of someone else dining with you.’