Hairy London

by Stephen Palmer

  “You will! Because I will kill your wife if you don’t.”

  Kornukope quailed. At last he said, “What method, then, do you have awaiting me?”

  “A small, motion-sensitive bomb disguised as a posy of flowers, which you will carry to the Queen. But this bomb will not be under your control. I will control it, and I will make it leap towards her when the moment is right. So do not think you have any way out. And remember, if you fail, if you run, if you scream for help, Eastachia is dead. Is that what you want, Kornukope Wetherbee?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. I admire the people of Indoo. It would be such a waste.”

  “But what of me?” Kornukope wailed.

  “What of you? Don’t you now see the difference between you oafs in your so-called Suicide Club, and me? I’m an operative of the Russio secret service, a real man, one who influences the world, one in tune with modern times, one who shapes its history. You’re a silly old duffer with grey hair. I scorn you, but I’ll use you nevertheless.”

  Kornukope sighed. He wondered how much time he had left. “Then give me one last request,” he said. “I should like to smoke a final cigarola.”

  Yeggman returned his pignose to the depths of his pockets. “Very well. I’m not a monster, after all.”

  Kornukope took his cig-box from his pocket and withdrew a slim cigarola, which he lit with a vesta. “History will be the judge of that,” he replied. He puffed at the cigarola, and the pungent fumes began to circulate around the musical instrument room.

  Yeggman said, “You Britishers always smoke the filthiest types, don’t you? In Russio, we smoke mild cigarettes.”

  “In Russio,” Kornukope pointed out, “you still allow slavery, which our Mr Wilberforcer abolished some time ago.”

  “A serf is not a slave,” Yeggman replied. “Besides, you perverted Britishers love to be whipped by the lower classes, it is your vice – le Vice Anglais as the French call it.”

  “We call it the French Vice,” Kornukope replied, “which it is, and so your point is nugatory.”

  “Hurry up and finish that wretched cigarola!”

  “You surely have no concerns,” Kornukope said in his smoothest tones. “This is the last thing I will ever do.”

  “Just finish it.”

  Then, as Yeggman spoke, there came a noise at the door and three men strode into the room. At once Kornukope leaped aside and shouted, “Get him! Disarm him! He’s a Russio spy! And the Russio woman!”

  Yeggman screeched and grabbed Zarina’s handbag, but it was too late for him to take the posy of flowers out, still less to retrieve his pignose revolver. The men, who Kornukope recognised as guardians of the castle, grabbed Yeggman, Zarina and Kornukope.

  Kornukope, faint with relief, gasped, “I am Kornukope Wetherbee of the Suicide Club, here on vital government business. Fetch the police! That man is Yeggman Spiv, a Russio spy, and that is Princess Zarina Nataliya Romanov. Hurry!”

  The guardian holding him replied, “You were smoking inside Windsor Castle! You know that’s forbidden–”

  “Of course I know it is forbidden!” Kornukope shouted. “That man was about to have me murder the Queen! My goal was to smoke a cigar and hope somebody would smell the fumes.”

  “We smelled the fumes all right,” the guardian replied. “And you’ll be thrown out as a consequ–”

  “Never mind me,” Kornukope said, struggling in vain to free himself of the guardian’s grip. “He is the spy! There is a bomb inside Zarina’s handbag. Check it now! That will be the proof that I am correct. Do it sir, do it now, or feel the wrath of the British Government!”

  The guardian did as Kornukope requested, whereupon the floral bomb and its control device was revealed.

  More guardians entered the room. “What’s going on here?”

  “Crafty bit of smoking. And Russio spies. Take those two away.”

  “Not me!” Kornukope replied.

  The burliest, ugliest guardian approached him. “No, not you,” he grunted. “You and your…” He glanced at Eastachia then continued, “… accomplice will be thrown out of the castle.” He frowned, shook his head. “The King’s honour has been besmirched by you smoking here – you know he can’t stand–”

  “Of course I know!” Kornukope yelled. “I was here a few months ago at the King’s very own Anti-Smoking Ball! Ask him, ask the King now!”

  The burly guardian turned away to address his colleagues. “Take him and his accomplice to the forecourt. Use one of the Zeppelin-Benz horseless carriages there to drive them to the middle of Windsor Great Park. Then leave them to their fate.”

  “But sir,” Kornukope gasped, “it is night-time!”

  The guardian grinned. “I know,” he replied.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Some of the main Whitechapel streets had been clipped using enormous, steam operated scissors that Sheremy had earlier heard clicking and clacking in distant thoroughfares. But the fine blonde hair covering this part of London grew quickly, and Mansell Street, in which they rested, stretched out like a yellow field. Sheremy stood up and walked into the street. Split ends were bad here, causing the hair to form a fuzzy roof, like a jungle canopy, in which all manner of confused insects flew.

  The echo of the woman’s scream died away. He glanced back at Missus, who was awakening.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said, knowing she would not have heard the cry. He did not want her anxious.

  Night lay still and silent. He was hungry again.

  “We need food,” he said.

  She nodded, then walked over to join him. “Where now?”

  “Onward through Whitechapel,” he replied, “then into the City. Soon we shall see St Paul’s!”

  “I ain’t never seen St Paul’s,” she said.

  They forged a way through the hair until they reached the junction with Somerset Street, where they turned left, finding a shaved path through the blonde thickets. Sheremy saw figures ahead, people illuminated by lanthorns on poles, and one was a police officer. He stopped, remembering Murchison Volume.

  “We been noticed, we has,” Missus said, pressing herself against him. “Just walks on through. They won’t know us.”

  Sheremy was not so sure, but already the police officer was beckoning them to approach. As they closed, the man said, “Serjeant Cough at your service. Are you two passing through?”

  “Yes,” Sheremy replied, relieved that he had not been recognised.

  “You want to be careful, sir, what with you arm-in-arm with a lady and all. Jacques is abroad tonight.”

  “Jacques?”

  “Jacques the Raper, le Violeur. He’s attacked before – ladies of the night, you understand, left them in a hideous mess.”

  “Ah,” Sheremy said, recalling what he had learned in the house of catwomen. “He sounds a notorious criminal. If I see or hear anything, I’ll be sure to get a message to you.”

  “Really, sir?” The serjeant sounded surprised. From his pocket he took a notepad, beneath which dangled a copper pen. “Use this,” he explained, “and what you write will appear upon the pages of my master notebook. Grateful to you, sir.”

  Sheremy took the automatic notebook, unnerved by the offer, which had more than a hint of telegraphical communication. He wanted as few connections to the police as could be managed; preferably none.

  “You, er…” he began.

  Serjeant Cough raised his eyebrows.

  “You don’t have any connections with police forces further west, do you?”

  “None, sir. The East End is a different country.”

  Sheremy nodded, patting the officer on the shoulder. “Well done,” he said, turning to depart.

  “Oh, sir?” Serjeant Cough said.

  Sheremy’s heart seemed to leap into his mouth. “Yes?” he squeaked.

  “There’s also rumour of an uprising in these parts. Mind how you go, sir.”

  Sheremy, trembling with nerves, nodded. “Thank yo
u, serjeant,” he said, taking the proffered lanthorn on a pole.

  They walked along Somerset Street to its end, but Aldgate High Street lay thick with strong brown hair, and seemed, to Sheremy’s eyes, all but impassible.

  “We might have to go east along Whitechapel High Street,” he said, “then force a way round. It’s far from ideal, my dear.”

  “If we can’t gets though, we can’t gets through,’ Missus said.

  They managed to force a way through the fringe of the hair, until they reached Whitechapel Street, but then Sheremy, sniffing the air, smelled something… something bad. “Blood,” he said.

  “Look!”

  It was a woman’s body, lying half concealed by brown locks. Sheremy approached, but knew before he knelt at the woman’s side that it was too late. He threw Missus the automatic notebook, saying, “Write to the serjeant,” before pulling back locks of hair to reveal the grisly scene.

  “But I can’t write,” Missus replied, looking sheepish.

  “Oh… very well.” Sheremy scrawled a note, then knelt again beside the victim. She had been assaulted, then slashed, and, he suspected, had died from loss of blood. Bringing close the lanthorn he saw a thread on her clothes, that when he removed it proved to be a single, long white hair.

  He considered this piece of evidence, then put it back and stood up.

  Serjeant Cough ran up, halting when he saw the body. “Have you touched it?”

  “No,” Sheremy replied. “I’ll leave the investigation to you, officer. But she’s been dead a couple of hours I suspect.”

  “You’re not the murderer then, sir!”

  “No indeed… not me,” Sheremy replied. But his mind was whirling with thoughts.

  They hurried away, ducking into an alley as soon as they could. Missus squeezed his hand, then stood on tip-toes to kiss him. “Aw, you don’t likes the police now, does you?”

  “No, my dear. They have proven to be corrupt, I’m sad and surprised to say.”

  “Murchison Volume is corrupt,” Missus said. “It’s not quite the same–”

  “If you don’t mind,” Sheremy interrupted, “I’ll stick to my–”

  “Shhh!” Missus hissed. Then she pointed to the rooftop opposite. “A man, starin’ at us!”

  Sheremy looked up to see a figure illuminated by the methane farm lamps of Commerical Road, and in that ruddy light he looked like a hero shining in a sunset. But then Sheremy noticed something else: masked face, hair beneath a woollen hat, grapnello and rope on his back. Could it be? Unlikely, but…

  “Monsieur!” he cried out. “Comment allez-vous?”

  The man stood frozen, staring. And Sheremy knew. Jacques! Without thought he scrambled across the street and began climbing a fire escape leading up to the roof. Then he paused. Damn it, this man must not recognise him. He pulled out a kerchief and pressed it to his face, but the result was inadequate. Still, it was late at night: dark, little moon. He climbed on.

  Atop the roof he saw that his quarry stood trapped at the end of the chimney stack. He closed. The man was not quick on his feet, he noticed, as if age dulled his joints. Sheremy began to feel confident. But then the man jumped, and like the seed of the Daniel De Lion floated down to the street below. Hot damn! A continental seed-o-flap – probably smuggled over by Bismarck on the Deutscher ferry. Sheremy swore aloud, then descended the fire escape as fast as he could: Missus stood unprotected.

  Nobody stood in the street near her, but he nevertheless forged his way through the hair as fast as he could. She was safe, if nervous. “Was that him?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sheremy replied. “I’m sure of it. He concealed his face, so I know not who he is, but it was Jacques the Raper all right. The cad!”

  All at once there came the sound of a policeman’s whistle. Sheremy looked around, but saw no officer. Then he saw Jacques – blowing a whistle.

  “What is he doing?” he muttered. “Calling the police?”

  Missus grabbed him, clutching his arms. “Don’t follows him! Don’t leave me Sheremy my darlin’, I’ll be ripped to pieces, I will.”

  “Yes, you’re right, you are my priority,” he replied. “Damn it! And the man so close.”

  “There’s Serjeant Cough comin’ up the street, and some other policemen.”

  Sheremy pointed, shouting, “There officer, he’s over there!”

  But Jacques the Raper – if he it truly was – had vanished into hair and darkness. Serjeant Cough approached. Just a few yards away, on the opposite side of the street, he fell over something lying beneath the hair.

  “A body!”

  One of the other police officers pulled back locks of hair. “A woman! She’s been done in by Jacques. The devil, that’s two in one night!”

  Serjeant Cough stared at Sheremy, then pointed and said, “Arrest that man.”

  Sheremy stared. “Me?”

  Two burly officers approached through the street hair.

  Sheremy gasped, “Me, Serjeant Cough? No! There was a man on the same side of the street as you. I trapped him on the roof.”

  Serjeant Cough glanced up at the roof, then said, “Oh really, sir?”

  “He floated down on a seedling.”

  “Oh really, sir?”

  The policemen grabbed Sheremy. “You’re micked,” one grunted.

  Sheremy struggled. Missus shrank back, horrified.

  “Wait,” Sheremy said. “Jacques blew a police whistle! I’ve been set up!” And again! He knew now the identity of Jacques the Raper. “It’s–”

  But before he could speak the name there came a flash of yellow light and an explosion from the lower end of Commercial Street. The policemen ducked. Serjeant Cough fell flat on his face. Sheremy took his chance, grabbing Missus by the arm and leaping into the hair in the centre of the street. Nearby stood Old Castle Street. As fast as he could he forged his way towards it, but seconds later he saw swarms of people emerging from Commercial Street, while more hacked and slashed their way down Old Castle Street, to the sound of martial singalongs and joanna playing.

  “The uprising!” Sheremy gasped.

  “The what?” said Missus.

  “The Cockneigh Uprising! And we’re trapped. We’ll be mashed up and made into pet food. Run for your life!”

  “Too late, I reckon,” Missus said with a sigh.

  ~

  No-one hath any greater love than that of a man for his country, Velvene’s brother had told him.

  And it turned out that Velvene’s country was under threat from the Kaiser, who had created an outpost of his fatherland in south west London. Landing the Archimedean floating system on Feltham Recreation Ground, Velvene, with all the excitement of a young boy in a playroom, strapped on his rucksack and prepared himself for war, a smile spread across his face. This, he felt sure, was the answer, the highest calling, the one.

  “Goodbye Lily-Bette,” he said to the clay figure. “Stay here whatever the weather and one day I shall return, to see how you are progressing. The camouflage abilities of the machinora will keep you invisible to prying eyes.”

  He was certain the figure turned to look at him. It was as if the thing… the woman was trying to reply. Then a faint voice said, “Come back to me, don’t leave me Velvene…”

  He took a few steps back, shook his head. The woman’s eyes remained closed, but had they flickered? He could not be sure. After looking from north to east to south to west, to ensure he himself did not lose the machinora, and fixing the shape of a nearby pine tree in his mind, he walked away, his heart thumping.

  First crossing the Longford River, then Harlington Road West, he headed east, making for Hounslow Heath, where the main outposts of the Britisher Army lay; he had seen them during his flight. Once, he stopped. Though distant, he thought he could hear the noise of shells falling, of guns firing… unless that was just an echo of thunder.

  He walked on, crossing the Hounslow Road. A number of canvas-topped horseless carriages sped by, full of men in u
niform; he waved to them. Then he splashed across the River Crane and headed for the Stains Road, where, glittering in the morning sun, he saw a makeshift aluminium hut with a huge Union Jack flying atop it. He stopped and saluted.

  Inside the hut he saw a number of military officers at tables, papers strewn everywhere, and a queue of eight men, all in civilian clothes. Volunteers, he knew. He joined the line at its end.

  The volunteer in front was a somewhat rounded man of medium height, with dark eyes and black curly hair. Velvene shook his hand and said, “I am Velvene Orchard. Are you volunteering?”

  The man nodded. “Arthuriad Spaniel, pleased to meet you. You look in a bad way Velvene, been cross country running?”

  Velvene glanced down at his clothes, which, from days in the outdoors, had become dirty and frayed. “Yes,” he replied. “So, the Hun is nearby, eh?”

  “Very much so. Kaiser Bill thinks he can take Kingston-upon-Thames. We’re here to stop him.”

  “For King and country!”

  “Absolutely.”

  Another man joined the queue, standing behind Velvene, who at once turned to shake him by the hand. “Velvene Orchard, pleased to meet you.”

  “Chock Eelgate, cleaner by trade. Nice t’meet yer.”

  The man was a commoner, small, pale and untidy, but Velvene felt no shame in touching him. They were all in this together. “One and all against the Hun!” he declared.

  As the line shuffled forward Velvene acquired as many facts about his comrades as he could. Arthuriad was the manager of a velocipede shop in Isleworth, but his trade had dried up after the arrival of the hair. Chock, meanwhile, had six brothers, eight sisters and formerly lived in a rented shed, before leaving home to enlist. He was just nineteen.

  After Arthuriad, it was Velvene’s turn to sign up.

  “Name?”

  “Velvene Orchard.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirty one.”

  “Trade?”

  Velvene hesitated. “Aviator.”

  The officer, a serjeant, laughed. “This is the army, mate. We don’t need birdmen in our ranks.”

  “I wish to enlist as a private,” Velvene replied, knowing he could never mention his Suicide Club experience. “I have no small skill at–”