The Vesuvius Club

by Mark Gatiss

  Brooding on this, I thumbed through Mrs Knight’s particulars once more. Here was the account of the trip to Chelsea by the grim husband. Here was the last will and testament showing the annuity from the first husband.

  ‘A free-thinker,’ Mr Knight had said.

  I glanced thoughtfully at the reams of print.

  Then I saw it.

  I read the words over four times before I sank back into the chair, my blood running cold.

  In faded black ink was the name of Mrs Knight’s first husband. The other man in the photograph of the Cambridge Four!

  Maxwell Morraine.

  XI

  THE LIBRARY OF EMMANUEL QUIBBLE

  ALL the nice girls love a sailor. That they also like secret servicemen is fortunate as yours truly is no Jack tar. Some days later, while my fellow passengers took in the broad curve of Naples harbour on the prow of SS Mandragora, I was lying in my cabin two decks below, head wrapped in a wet towel, becoming intimate with the porcelain of the lavatory bowl.

  There was a knock at the slatted wooden door and some flunky entered.

  ‘Mr Box, sir?’

  ‘Mmmhhmm?’

  ‘We’re here, sir. Naples, sir. Arrived safely and come to tell you, as instructed.’

  ‘Hhhuunnhhh!’

  ‘You just take your time, sir. I’ll arrange transportation.’

  The door closed behind him.

  Like some valetudinarian, I was carried from my cabin and hurried into a carriage scarcely noticing my surroundings at all as my stomach continued to lurch and my head to spin in defiance of having reached terra firma. I planted a ’kerchief to my mouth – the stink of the dockside hitting me at once – and was carried the short distance to my hotel.

  A sulphurous yellow building loomed before me and I caught snatched glimpses of the great hot sun and the sapphire of the sky before being ushered into the lobby. For a long moment I stood, swaying on my feet in the sudden darkness, while the concierge attended to the details but soon I was being helped into the cool lift and ferried up, up to the sanctuary of my room.

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  The page unlocked the door and I stumbled past him, collapsing gratefully on to the bed.

  As I slipped into blissful sleep, I saw him lowering the blinds over the windows and the great blocks of blinding yellow light were shut out.

  Sleep came and more sleep.

  I dreamt of burst-open coffins and straw men staggering from within them, of a coach-chase through the landscape paintings on Miracle’s walls and of a monstrous regiment of veiled women, unwinding the stained bandages which encircled their heads in some horrid Salome-like bacchanalia.

  Blinking awake what seemed like months later I found the room around me cool and dark. One of the veiled women seemed to have followed me through from my dreams, her shroud-like garments fluttering in the breeze, until I sat up on the bed and made sense of the curtains.

  Feeling hugely better and absolutely ravenous, I raised the blinds and gazed out on the harbour below. Warm air as fragrant as incense washed over me. The weather – foul for most of the crossing – had cleared, revealing the most glorious blue sky and a strong, healthy sun. The wide road before my hotel was crowded with carriages and strolling couples, white parasols flaring painfully in the light. Close by loomed the ugly Castell dell’Ovo and from its rocky foundations skinny brown fisher-boys, as slippery as eels, were diving into the foam.

  Dominating all, naturally enough, was the great volcano of Vesuvius, a fantastic hazy blue shape, its lower slopes verdantly fertile, its summit betraying only the faintest wisp of smoke, like a signal from the Vatican chimney.

  Shading my eyes against the glare and breathing deeply, I flipped my watch from my waistcoat pocket and smiled in genuine contentment. I had a noon appointment with Cretaceous Unmann, giving me just enough time to bathe and change. I unpacked and set out my hairbrushes and cologne on the dresser. For sentimental reasons I had brought with me the spelter lancer that Bella had drawn on that memorable day. It would serve to remind me of that lovely personage until this curious case was over and I could return to her side.

  I always think best in the bath. With the steam drifting about my ears, I mulled over recent events. As you may have guessed, dear reader, the Duce Tiepolo had indeed been the employer of Miss Kitty Backlash and behind the whole substitution scheme. But Inspector Flush’s men had found Tiepolo’s house shuttered and empty. The whole business might have been entirely unconnected to this affair of the professors were it not for the fact that Mrs Knight had once been married to Maxwell Morraine. But how the devil was I to unravel this tangled skein?

  A couple of hours later, resplendent in a new dove-grey suit, I descended and launched myself upon old Napoli.

  The fresh sea air and the sun on my face were like a tonic after the foetid stink of London and I took my time strolling through the teeming city, passing the great swooping crescent of Bianchi’s church before settling down at a table at the Café Gambrinus, a gorgeous beacon of extravagance to which I had become extremely attached on my previous visit. Ah, but what a callow youth I’d been in those days! I recalled the dazzling mirrored interior, fancy cakes and bitter black coffee, Guy de Maupassant arguing over his bill and, of course, the foiling of an attempted assassination of the Prince of Wales by means of a poisoned meringue that had been one of my first triumphs.

  The café overlooked the opera house and a square that thrilled with bustling life. A grinning gelati-seller was peddling water-ices a few feet from me, his mouth packed with broken brown teeth. Filthy urchins, laughing hysterically and as bothersome as mosquitoes were pestering visitors almost to the point of distraction. The aria in rehearsal at the Opera House soared over all, a wonderful baritone that somehow blended perfectly with the smell of fresh rolls and coffee.

  I took out the old book that Miracle had sent me as a lure for Professor Quibble and had just ordered a pressé from a fat waiter in a crisp white apron when Unmann arrived. He greeted me, stumbling over a chair and giving me a handshake as weak as a baby’s. Unmann was what you might call a Natural Bland.

  ‘Mr Box, I am so glad to see you! Joshua Reynolds wired to say you were on your way. Hot on the trail of Poop’s killer, I trust?’

  ‘Perhaps. Have you traced that notepaper?’

  ‘Yes. “K to V.C.” was written on the rather good stationery of the Vesuvio Hotel.’

  ‘But you have a residence in the city – what was Poop doing in there?’

  Unmann shrugged. ‘No idea. Keeping an eye on someone, perhaps?’ He rubbed his hands together excitedly. ‘But you must let me be your guide here, Mr Box! I can use every scintilla of my local knowledge…’

  ‘Your contacts will be essential, Unmann,’ I said, sipping my pressé. ‘I’m interested in the activities of a woman and her husband who lived here back in the seventies.’

  ‘I see.’ He took out a pocket book and pencil. ‘Their names?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Maxwell Morraine.’

  He wrote the names down with great care. ‘Does this have a bearing on the death of Poop?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I think, though, that whoever did for him may well be on my trail.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘There have been two attempts on my life,’ I said with studied casualness. I gave him a quick sketch of the chase by coach that had terminated in the cemetery and the incident of the venomous centipede. I omitted the attack in the steam-rooms by Pugg.

  ‘At first I thought them unrelated to this business but I’m not so sure now. They were not merely vulgar attacks and I’m certain they will try again, this time with even greater cunning. You too must be prepared for the gravest danger.’ I set my jaw firmly.

  ‘Great Scott,’ breathed Unmann.

  The poor sap swallowed such stoic babble whole. I hoped it would keep the tick out of my way. He was, of course, the kind of dependable idiot upon whom the Diplomatic is founded but, really, was this the bes
t they could do these days? If the king had any inkling of the state of things he’d probably pop another button off his waistcoat.

  ‘Also, I need to know if someone called the Duce Tiepolo has recently re-entered the country.’

  Unmann paused in his scribbling. ‘Illicitly?’

  ‘I should think so. The new regime chucked him out. He has some curious connection to the business in hand.’

  I snapped my fingers and ordered Unmann a cup of coffee. When it came he drank it in one swift gulp.

  ‘Finally,’ I continued, ‘I want whatever information you can dig up about the firm of Thomas Bowler, undertaker of London and Naples.’

  Unmann nodded, scratching hurriedly in his pocket-book.

  ‘Will you stay for lunch?’ I offered, stomach rumbling.

  ‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ he jabbered. ‘Office in a frightful mess. Got all old Jocelyn’s papers to sort through. Quite big shoes to fill. Now I’ll get on to these names just as soon as I can, Mr Box. I’ll cable the Santa Lucia if there’s any news. Got to dash –’ He glanced down at Poop’s book. ‘Holiday reading, eh? Might I ask –?’

  ‘You may not. Most secret.’ I flashed him my wide smile. ‘Good day to you.’

  With a nod, Unmann was gone. At length, I ordered scrambled eggs and spiced sausage and turned my attention to the book. It was some kind of novel from what I could glean. And it must be precious indeed if it were to whet the appetite of the famous Sir Emmanuel Quibble.

  The venerable scholar had always been, according to my researches, an exceptionally gifted man. He had shown extraordinary facility for music and the arts before turning his mind towards scientific matters at the ripe old age of seven after conducting a remarkable experiment with a song thrush and a vacuum tube. Tragically, only a few years later, he had been thrown from a gelding, sustaining a spinal injury that kept him confined, forever after, to a wheeled-chair. Ill-health had turned into a kind of mania and now he was said to positively thrive on his allergic reaction to the nineteenth (no, I keep forgetting, the twentieth) century. In recent years the old fellow had withdrawn entirely from the world, moving to Italy and taking solace in his unrivalled library of arcane literature. Now I was being granted the rare privilege of entry to this inner sanctum. What would I find there?

  I sat for a while with eyes closed, listening to the muffled aria that thrilled through the sunshine. How I loved Italy! The heat assuaged by salty air, bright with dragon-flies humming over starched white tablecloths. I caught sight of a woman a few tables from me. She had her back to me and I took the opportunity to drink in the details of her exquisite carriage.

  She wore a splendid canary-yellow creation with a high, transparent collar, tight against her throat and her hair was hidden beneath the brim of a huge oval hat. Of course, there are few things in life more deceptive than a person’s back view. How many times have you yourself spotted someone at the theatre or on the underground whose magnificent bearing and gorgeous, swan-like neck have lured you into a state of unconditional lust? Only to discover, as they bend to read, to adjust a shoe or step off the staircase, that they have a face like a Transylvanian fish-wife.

  I ordered tea with lemon and sat with my chin on my hand, surveying the lovely, graceful woman before me who would, any moment now, turn and reveal herself to be a gorgon.

  The woman seemed to be listening to the aria as well. Her head was cocked attentively. I imagined she was smiling. At last she shifted in her seat and the sunshine illumined her face.

  My teacup clattered on to its saucer.

  The woman was Bella Pok.

  I rose and, raising my hat, stepped into her line of sight. Shading her eyes, she smiled sweetly at me as though we had simply run into one another at the Café Royal.

  ‘Lucifer!’ she cried. ‘I’m so delighted. I had anticipated traipsing all over Naples to find you and yet here you are, large as life.’

  She gestured to a chair and I sank into it. ‘I don’t suppose this is a coincidence?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ she said with a grin. ‘You really can’t expect a girl to return to her drab little existence after becoming involved in Mr Miracle’s adventure! Whatever’s going on, I yearn to be part of it. Please say you’ll have me!’

  Which is the sort of invitation one longs to hear from such as Mademoiselle Pok.

  I shook my head, however. ‘There is nothing going on. As I told you, I have business here in Naples which I hope to combine with a little sketching. You know it is vital for we daubers to refresh ourselves now and then.’

  She looked hard at me.

  ‘Don’t be so disappointing,’ she said.

  I sighed. ‘I’m afraid I must escort you back to your hotel, Miss Pok,’ I said, ‘and then put you on the first boat back to England.’

  ‘You certainly shan’t put me anywhere.’

  ‘Bella –’

  ‘I want to be at your side, Lucifer!’

  ‘On no account!’ I snapped.

  ‘But if there’s nothing to fear, then why ever not? Am I such an embarrassment?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well then.’

  She sighed and sat back in her chair, the brim of her hat eclipsing the dazzling disc of the sun. ‘Whatever can I do to persuade you?’

  Well, she didn’t have to do much in the end. Fact is, I was fearfully besotted with her and her boldness in following me to Naples had only endeared her more to me. Over a kir or three, she cajoled and argued until all I could think of was the glow of her lovely face and the wide, inviting mouth I so longed to kiss.

  ‘Very well,’ I said at last. ‘If you mean to stay then you are welcome. But this is no holiday for me. You must excuse me if I have to…dash off at the most inopportune moments.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘May I see you to your hotel?’

  She was staying, appropriately enough, at the Vesuvio. We made an appointment to meet there the next day and I walked back to the Santa Lucia, whistling if you don’t mind.

  Well, she would certainly help take my mind off the business in hand. The danger was that she would do so too effectively. I had work to do in Naples. This was not a honeymoon.

  After dressing for dinner I hailed a cab and barked out Quibble’s address in my ever-so-good Italian. I am, naturally, a master of languages. I have, in addition to robust Eye-tie, a little French, a little German and some particularly filthy Latin. I am also quite good at American.

  Stooping to conquer with a ‘Pronto!’, I was ferried away up the steep slopes of the old city towards Capodimonte.

  The weather had deteriorated into a stinker of an evening. Sweaty mist hung in great miasmic wreaths around the jumble of crumbling stucco, my carriage cutting a coffin-shaped swathe through it as we climbed ever higher. The humidity was so thick that the traffic seemed scarcely to move at all. I could hear the soft clop of horseshoes on the cobbles, muffled by the atmosphere as though for a funeral.

  As we ascended the mountain, the mist cleared slightly to reveal verdant countryside thick with dark olive groves until, at last, the carriage drew to a halt. Six or seven lonely cottages clustered around the edifice of a mansion like mournful piglets around a long-dead sow.

  It must have been a grim place at the best of times, but on an oppressive evening like this one, I felt positively mournful as I bid the driver wait and made my way up the weed-throttled gravel to the gates. Thick creepers were enmeshed in every part of the ironwork, as though a mob trying to get in had been turned, by some spell, into a jungle of rain-rotted vegetation.

  I pulled at the bell and ran a finger under my stiff collar.

  Presently, the gates juddered open, squealing as they were hauled over ground thick with a sediment of dead leaves.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said to the ancient butler who emerged around the edge of the gate.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Mr Box, is it? Sir Emmanuel is expecting you, sir.’

  ‘You’re English?’

&nb
sp; ‘Naturally, sir. As are the entire staff. My name is Stint. Might I advise you to loosen your garments, sir?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘It is a trifle warm within, sir,’ he wheezed.

  He was like a column of smoke in livery. Pale eyes, pale face, wispy white hair and whiskers. To my very great surprise he appeared to be shirt-less beneath his threadbare uniform.

  Stint kicked the front door to open it, so swollen was the woodwork. Once inside, he ushered me down a stifling corridor, the once-bright blooms of its wallpaper faded into bleak greys. Piled high in heaps all along the walls, their cloth bindings waxy with age, were hundreds of books.

  ‘It’s very…um…dark, Stint,’ I said at last, removing my coat.

  ‘No lamps, sir.’ He shook his white head mournfully. ‘Sir Emmanuel does not care for the light, you see. I have been trying to persuade him as to the virtues of the electricity. But that, as they say, will be the day.’

  The room I now entered was fat with books. They lined the walls, covered the floor, hung around in tottering heaps in the shadowed corners. The combined mass of ruddy old leather and faded gilt should have lent the room a jolly air, but the fire blazing in the hearth made the place like a hot-house.

  The firelight illuminated the figure of Emmanuel Quibble, swathed in black like some behemothal spider. The impression was reinforced by a number of mahogany reading-stands that projected from his chair on telescopic appendages thus allowing him to consult as many as eight or nine volumes at any one time.

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