“Cursed luck.”
“Buck up, old bean, it really was quite a thrill there for a minute, good fellow,” Manlington smiles, attempting to cheer his patient.
“Burbity-burb. Er, thank you Manlington.”
“No, no, I am quite the mystic, really!” Mrs. WinterBottom jumps up, ~tinkle.~ dropping the tiny tambourine she was manipulating with her knees to the floor. “Oops.”
“Wait a minute,”says Thurston Purrington looking closer at the Colonel. “Hey, don’t I know you? ‘ere, Beulah, grab ‘im!”
Beulah Purrington moves quickly to pin the Colonel’s arms behind him.
“What, what? Hear now, unhand me woman!”
Thurston Purrington puts his wiry bearded face close to the Colonel’s, giving the distinguished officer a meticulous and scrutinizing examination before a look of amazement and surprise overcomes his features.
“Hey! I does know you! Let me sees something.”
The powerful Thurston Purrington spits into his palm and then rubs the saliva solution none too gently into the strongly protesting Colonel’s forehead. A few half hearted pleas are made by the onlookers to dissuade or at least be a bit more gentle with the Colonel towards the Purrington couple, but no one wants to interfere too forcefully with the fearsome pair’s actions.
“There! What did I tells ya!”
Mrs Purrington holds the struggling Colonel securely. He cannot hide what Mr. Purrington has revealed. A winestain birthmark in the shape of a Valentine’s heart graces the center of his forehead in a blaze of silver guilt.
“Sergeant Eric Cleese! You was a part of the detail what secured the Plumtartt expedition’s treasures back to England. Professor Plumtartt gave me a chance after prison that no one else would. He trusted me to watch over the expedition on the Upper Nile to ensure against treacheries such as this. The temptation of such priceless treasure was too much to trust to the average man. I have never shirked in my loyalty to the Professor, even now, over two years since his passing and ten years after the return from Egypt.”
“Oh, Blythe my dear,” the fraudulent Colonel looks to his exposed wife for help, “what do Oi do?”
“Oh, Eh-wic, Oi suppose we must confess all there is.” Mrs. Winterbottom’s voice and accents are vastly changed, now.
“Blast you, Purrington! There could have been enough treasure for us all, you fool.”
“Nevermind that, tell us your tale.”
“Very well, then. It was during my Egyptian posting. I got tossed in the clink after a drunken Cairo brawl. There I met three amazing little pips. Clever native lads they were. They had been through extreme hardships, poor fellows. Each lad was a physical wreck, what with their twisted postures, misshapen lips, jaundiced faces and leprous limbs. Well it seems that these fellows had been a part of this expedition that I was detailed to help guard on its passage back to England. One night during the expedition, one of the boys, the ugly one, had a hanker for an apple. Stretching down into the barrel, he had fallen in. While cooped up in the bottom of the barrel, he happened to overhear a private conversation between the leading archaeologist and Professor Plumtartt. An unexpectedly rare find had been made. The ‘Jewels of Impossibility’ had been found.”
“Oh! Jewels! Now-ah things-ah get to be the interesting, henh? Tell me more of these intriguing jewels, you exposed expeditionaire.”
“In return for my helping the chaps to freedom, they told me of this priceless treasure of the magical rocks. These are purported to be four gems that should not occur in nature. They are said to contain untold supernatural power and were once a part of an ancient rite in which the Jackal headed God, Annuubnuub, was raised into physical form in this world. The gems were lost until this expedition found them. The knowledge was kept on a ‘need to know only’ basis and they have not been seen again. Blythe and I conjectured that the Professor kept them for himself for use in his experiments. We raised what funds we could to take on the nearby house and these personae to stay close to the treasure, but have never even been able to gain entrance to the Manor or any more news of the stones. We made several forays onto the estate while it was unoccupied, but frightening apparitions kept us at bay. Something lurked these grounds in your absence, Miss Plumtartt.”
“Aye, it was me, Beulah, and Winnifred keeping the professor’s legacy safe. As long as there is breath in me body, me loyalty is to the man that gave me a second chance at an honest life. My Beulah is just as loyal to me and in turn to the family Plumtartt.”
“Who-ah cares? Tell-ah me of these expensive jewels!”
“The ‘Cubus Quartet’, for they are said to have been a part of a magical artifact, a great onyx block used in mystical ceremonies.”
“Hey, didn’t those monks at the museum try to pull something with you, Miss Plumtartt, involving a large, black, flat, cubed stone? Those awful thieves stole that sucker from the British Museum, what do you bet?”
“Indeed, perhaps they required, but did not possess, these fantastic jewels?”
The ‘Jewels of Impossibility’, also known as the ‘Ascension Stones’, as well as the ‘Cubus Quartet’, are said to be four huge and amazing rocks. The ‘Green Ruby’ of ‘Ra‘ah’s Revenge’, the ‘Pharaoh’s Scarlet Emerald’, the ‘Rainbow Carbuncle of Questionable Origin’, and the grandest of them all, from the innermost heart of darkest Africa, the ‘Great ‘Black Hope’ Diamond’.”
“Hey! Yeah! That’s-ah the one that Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza wants-ah to know abouts! Give! Tell me mores!”
The former Colonel WinterBottom, having been greatly reduced in rank (now to Sergeant Eric Cleese), continues. “It is a unique cut, featuring a wide array of points and surfaces. It is estimated to weigh an astonishing seventy carats at the very least. This is almost double the incomparable ‘Hope’ diamond of commonly-known notoriety and long history of death and intrigue in its bloody history. An infamous characteristic of the ‘Great ‘Black Hope’ Diamond’, is its black luminescence. All of these gems have been thought to be myth, legends without basis, but now there is reason to believe that those gems are in this very house.”
A lightning flash, clap of thunder and Manor shaking gust of wind respond on cue.
A green electrical discharge makes a brief appearance through different points of the dangerous apparatus Ickity has set up.
“What was that?” squeaks Beulah Purrington. The formidable woman gains a measure of timidity at the otherworldly green discharge. Releasing her prisoner she quickly scoots to embrace her husband for comfort and safety. Thurston Purrington looks around at the eerie electrical manifestations with uncharacteristic trepidation.
“Hey, I thinks something’s happening,” says the keen observer of the obvious, ‘Itchy-butt Tempura-ants’. “Keep pedaling, Spike, there’ll be a nice tip in it for ya’ buddy.”
Yeah, there better be, Icky-dud.
“I say, everyone resume their places! Good, now please continue, Madame Cleese.”
“Wot, are you barmey?” Blythe Cleese’s shoulders are pulled forward, her mouth is being pulled downward as if by invisible fingers. She has lost her high and aloof continental accent, having reverted to her more natural, London East end droning. “Oi don’t know nuffins about dis ‘hocus pocus’ twaddle. Dat bit was just a gimmick to gets into the ‘ouse, roight?”
More green discharges start to jump. Everybody’s hair loses its gravitational influence and is straightening out in all directions. The ectoplasmic goo pot gets its first droplets of amber nastiness.
“Pedal faster, Spike, we need more watts, son.”
“Perhaps one item of interest that our guide, the able and knowledgeable Manlington, neglected to mention was that my father, Professor Plumtartt, was an officer of many occult orders. He has worked extensively, or dabbled, if you will in many things of the supernatural. I should think this house to be quite saturated with paranormal evanescent residue.”
“Oi didn’t know dat! ‘ow was Oi ta know!”<
br />
“Never mind that my dear, you are doing splendidly. Pray continue, let’s see, I believe you were attempting to contact that lecherous gardener chap that is our murder victim, a Mr. Malachi CruikShank.”
{Cue thunder and lightning.}
{The discharge rate of the apparati increases dramatically at this point.}
“Oh, bwess me soah-woal! ‘ow did Oi gets inta dis’? Oh, Spee-witz, hear me pwea. Wuh, wuh, wuh-we, wish ta speaks wiff Malagllgh!”
Mrs Cleese’s body snaps taught as she stands up. No, she does more than stand up, she levitates into the air above her chair. Her head is thrown straight back and her body is in an extreme arch. Fingers are held as claws in upturned palms. She pulls her head back forward and releases some of the arch. Her head snaps to the left at a ninety degree angle. Looking out from this unusual perspective of parallel to her shoulders, her body begins a slow rotation. Her frightening grimace now turns upward in a disquietingly good imitation of CruikShank’s tomcat leer. She speaks in Malachi CruikShank’s voice.
“The devil with all this cypher-hedge nonsense, finally, a bit of nook-nook is in the cards. In dis bloody ‘enhouse of quail, Oi ain’t been able to nail one o’ these buhds yet. Well, that’s foinaly about to change, innit. ’meets me in the wine celluh’ she says. ‘We’ll ‘ave a bit of fun while everybody else is seein’ to the little Lady and her American oidle.”
Blythe Cleese’s rotation stops while facing the table and her head snaps to the other side.
“Ah, here you are me sweet little twist. Yeah, there you go. You are a randy lass, ain’t ye? Wrapping your arms about me and pushing me back into the col-ugh!”
“Aiiiee! Oi’ve been stabbed! I am mortally wounded! The treacherous little skank shivved me! I can just reach the weapon to pull it out. What is it wot did me in? A knitting needle? … uhhhhhhhhh...”
Little Mr. Sforza and Sergeant Cleese both jump to catch a falling Blythe Cleese.
“Okay, Spike, looks like all the juice has got this place humming. You can quit pedaling now.”
“I quit peddlin’ five minutes ago, Icky.”
Green flashes of powerful voltage excrescences flit about the room. Loud and violent snaps and pops accompany each glowing emerald discharge. A naturally occurring sequential chase enters the barbed-wire, steel-pronged, light show that fills the room and circles the para-participants.
“This here occultic excursion may be getting a little out of control, Miss Plumtartt. Perhaps we oughtta shut ‘er down?”
“Indeed, I do believe in following safety procedures. In deference to our guests, let us power down the devices of this hair-raising event.”
kuh-tung, plook-tuh
The big glass milk jug has just blown her top from too much ectoplasmic contents. The raw materialization of supernatural residue now sprays about the room in uncontrollable gouts of amber offal-ness.
“My word, Mr. Temperance, please do something, sir!”
“I’m trying Ma’am, but it won’t shut d...gulghp!”
This gormy groat is seized up in much the same manner that as the Swami impostor lady; only this time, the poor little fellow is being throttled like he was the winning ticket being waved above some lucky biddy’s head at the races. He levitates above the stress-filled apparati of his hyper active machineries with a face that is not quite his own. His eyes rotate directly backwards until fully white and then suddenly burst with glowing green light. Now the blighter starts to rotate, but unlike Mrs. Cleese, who rotated while in a vertical position, Icky is struck with his arms and legs straight away from his body as Vetruvian Man, and his rotation is like that of a clockwise turning cart’s wheel. Without moving his lips, he is able to form words that reverberate through the high voltage vault.
“To what purpose is this summoning?”
“We have opened a line of communication by accident,” calls out Lady Plumtartt through the torrent of loose objects that have decided to take flight about the room in a spontaneous whirlwind. “To whom do we speak?”
“I am the High Priest from the Valley of the Queens!”
“I am”
“Rhutatootootunkamen!”
“Rhutatootootunkamen, we did not summon you, but I feel as if powers are at work that may have opened a gateway that has inexorably drawn us together.”
“You fools!”
“You possess the ‘Cubus Quartet’!”
“Do not be so brazen as to execute their powers!”
{Cue lightning and thunder.}
“The ’Stones of Ascension’ are here!”
“Uh, gulk, galk, gilk.” Ichabod does a quick performance of spinning backflips in place while suspended until released by the PolterPriest to land heavily on some unforgiving machineries. Smoke is oozing from his ears and collar, but he otherwise appears more or less intact.
A sharp metallic snap accompanies a brilliant flash of light that radiates through the room and the supernatural spell is broken in a low ‘boomph’. A strong smell of over-heated metals fills the air. My mouth tastes like it’s been suckin’ on a pile of new shillings, it’s so coppery. We sit in sudden and unexpected quiet. The machineries issue a few desultory sparks, and the rain now beats a more medium-paced tattoo on the window panes. We are all a little taken aback by the instant calm and silence.
KLINCK!!!
KLINCK!!!
KLINCK!!!
KLINCKETY-KLINCKETY-KLINCK!!!
There is a metallic clatter from back in the house. It is exactly the sort of sound you would not want to make if you were surreptitiously moving around inappropriately in an occupied house. The sound was as if it were a metal tool, such as a chisel, or prybar, and a clumsy burglar had dropped this theoretical implement from a high place such as a ladder or scaffold, in a marble floored echoey vaulted room such as the North Annex with its marble floors and plethora of ladders and scaffolds.
Manlington’s personal secretary, Uppsey, drops his supercilious demeanor. A slight shift in posture and mannerism betray a man of action, intensity and purpose. His prancing moves and gracious poise, are replaced by sudden and focused attentiveness. He grabs up the former Colonel’s walking stick as he calls some inane phrase meant to convey a sense of urgency to Ichabod and elevate his excitement for immediate response.
“What did he say?” asks a wobbly Icky. Smoke oozes from the chap, and he is little more than out on his feet, but he still follows after the butler on instinct.
“I think he said something to the effect: ‘Hurry up, me foot is gamey’.”
The young, old Lady Plumtartt hurries after her smoke-oozing little excuse for a man.
Now the little, limp, forgotten Mr. Sforza pushes his chair back and stands. He carefully folds his glasses and passes them to his wife.
“Please hold these for me, my Dee-ah. I think that I should like to choose this juncture to take a more active role in the proceedings.”
The sleepy little toad shakes himself awake. His swayback slouch, when retracted as it is now, shows off a taut little physique on this pocket dynamo. With a light kiss on his wife’s mug, the little fellow bolts from the room with a speed and energy I would never have thought dwelt in the man.
“Looks like the Manor may be in trouble, Beulah. You sit tight, and your Thurston will go and make everything all right.”
“Oh, no you don’t, Thurston Purrington; I’m with you! Do I look like the kind of wife who would just sit back in a ladylike faint while you were in danger for the sake of being a useless Lady? You know better than that! Let’s go!”
“Hey! You phoney bolognas! Are-ah you-ah just-ah gonna sit there on your exposed pseudo Swami butts, or are you coming with me to see what the heck is going on?”
“Oh, Blythe.”
“Oh, Eh-wic.”
“Oh, shut up and hurry along with me!”
“Well, wasn’t that just thrilling, Spike? Let’s go and see what will happen next!”
Manlington skips from the room.
I may as well go and see what the fuss is.
I means to get that tip.
Chapter Ten.
The Adventure of the Sinsational Signora.
“Hey! Uppsey! Why you got-ah run so fast? Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza is built for many things, but running up these staircases she is not! Hey! Hurry up, you Purringtons! This scene I burst upon, she is-ah the crazy! I see the dark figures swarming on the window scaffold. They looks likes they are working on it somehow, but I do not remember this work going on when we were here earlier this evening. I am not so sure that this is an authorized sub-contractor. Now several figures rush to meet our entrance. Look what I see. It’s the butler, the pale one with the high and wide forehead and regal nose. He is not what you call, so girlish as he was before. He rushes to meet the first dark figure in combat! How he thrills me, Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza, with his strength of presence. Though he still retains all of his cultured grace, he is all the more masculine to exhibit it in this martial combat. He uses his stick that he knicked from the inn specter Cleeso, but I, Signora Francesca Angelina Marianna Sforza, have never witnessed this maneuver before. With confidence and assuredness, he steps under the slashing blade of a jumbo scimitar to turn into the move swinging his cane wielding right hand in a backhand flip that places the cane atop the assassin’s right forearm. Continuing the step behind, leverage and positioning allow the butler to throw his opponent in a graceful arc using the most artful of techniques. This move makes me of a mind that he is combining Nipponese wrestling and sailor boy stick fighting.
The little American, Ickzi, he does not realize what he is getting into until he is already ducking to prevent immediate decapitation. I think he can see he is in trouble because now he is being chased by the big scary leather-clad tough guy screaming and laughing and swinging a scimitar.
A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) Page 18