The Devil in Amber

by Mark Gatiss

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Nice and regular. He’s very per-spik-ay-shee-us, is Mr Flarge. He saved your ass too and no mistake.’

  I ignored Daley’s taunting and looked towards the back of the church. ‘Is the body still here?’

  ‘Shoo-wer. You wanna pay your last respects?’ He grinned nastily, exposing tiny neat teeth like those of a deep-sea fish.

  ‘Why not?’

  Outside, freezing night was creeping on. Daley handed me a pocket torch and led me into the yard, where a tumbledown outhouse had been pressed into service as a temporary morgue. Snowflakes as big as chrysanthemums were floating down from the drear sky and I bent down and scooped up a handful to assuage the awful throbbing in my hand.

  Daley shuddered open the outhouse door and the body of Hubbard was revealed in the beam of the torch. We went inside.

  ‘What exactly did Mr Flarge take away?’ I asked, peering down at the powder-blackened hole in Hubbard’s head.

  ‘Whole bunch of stuff,’ said Daley, taking the stub of a fat black cigar from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mr Flarge had a big carpet bag on him. Filled it with papers, mostly, and, you know, some merchandise.’

  ‘Cocaine?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Well, that seemed to confirm the theories. I nodded absently, and began to search Hubbard’s body. Flarge had certainly been thorough. There was nothing in the big man’s ghastly suit. No wallet, no identification, no driver’s licence.

  More than anything, I wanted to spot something that young pup had missed, and Daley knew it. He smoked his spit-wetted cigar and watched my fruitless activity with obvious glee. I’d almost given up when something caught my eye.

  It was Hubbard’s handkerchief. In sharp contrast to the dead man’s vile tailoring, the wipe was made of an exquisite ivory-coloured silk of obvious antiquity. It was folded into three neat triangles, like a miniature mountain range, and there seemed to be some sort of exotic pattern on it. It might be a mere trifle, but trifles ain’t to be sniffed at when you’ve not even been invited to the party…

  Daley was watching me closely. I cleared my throat and straightened up as though satisfied.

  ‘Very well. There’s nothing more to be done here,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Daley gave a little bow. I gasped suddenly, as though in pain, and dropped the torch, which rolled under the table.

  ‘Sorry!’ I managed through gritted teeth. ‘Damned wound!’

  Daley bent down to retrieve the torch and I swiftly whipped the handkerchief from Hubbard’s breast pocket, stuffing it into my trousers just as the Domestic bobbed back up.

  ‘You get yourself to bed now, Mr Box, you hear?’ he said with a horrible grin. ‘Then maybe get on the boat back home to Eng-ur-land, huh? What with Christmas coming and all.’

  I smiled tightly and stalked off into the gathering snowstorm, the silken rag tucked firmly into my pocket.

  2

  You Might As Well Live

  Those who have followed these incoherent memoirs may recall that my long and rather lovely hands are not to be trifled with. A youth of my acquaintance once compared them to Our Lord’s as depicted in Caravaggio’s Ecce Homo. I was, naturally, immensely flattered, though my digits had been engaged in singularly un-Christ-like activity at the time.

  Now, as blaring taxi cabs crawled around me in the sickly electric-yellow glow of the evening, I feebly raised my injured fingers and hailed one such, muttered the address of my hotel and slid inside the motor, avoiding the driver’s invective by studiously pretending sleep. The soft, wet patter of snow against the windows lulled me and I placed my bandaged hand on the wonderfully cold glass. The pain was somewhat tempered.

  I’ve dealt with Art and its shortcomings. Now, as promised, we shall examine the state of my other pursuit, namely espionage. Once again, for the newcomers (Keep up! Keep up!), I must devote a short passage to the Royal Academy of Arts, that bastion of the Establishment in London’s Piccadilly (where else’s Piccadilly? Must I address you like simpletons?). Fact is, the RA is not what it seems. For strip away the facade of Burlington House–you can do that, you know. The whole Palladian front descends into a specially dug trench in case of mortar attack. No, really–and you’ll uncover a seething hotbed of plotting, counter-plotting and assassination. Of course, that’s what you’d expect to find in a building full of artists, but this is a different business altogether. For the RA is the true face of His Majesty’s Secret Service. Not that other lot of whom you may have vaguely heard: the blighters who go around destabilizing perfectly friendly democracies in Bolivia or knocking off the Nabob of Whatchamacallit. No, we’re the real thing: the ones who oil the wheels of the great machines of state; the ones who make it possible for you to sit down in Lyon’s Corner House with a cup of rosie and the ‘Thunderer’ without some greasy foreigner taking a pop at you with a Walther PP.7.65.

  As I’ve said, to me it was always the merest hobby of a dilettante, a little like collecting stamps or mounting Red Admirals–but my exploits amongst the Russian navy will have to wait for another day. No, from my youthful adventures at the tail end of the old Queen’s reign to my ill-starred work against the Bosch during the last big show, I reckoned myself one of the brightest and best of the Academicians; trotting merrily from continent to continent; cutting, thrusting, derring and doing.

  Now, though, the game seemed to be full of arrogant young-bloods like the odious Percy Flarge, an athletic Cambridge Blue of little discernible charm. If there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s a smart alec. Unless that smart alec is me. And Percy Flarge was, from the crown of his trilby to the tips of his absurd coffee-and-cream brogues, smart as paint.

  At first I’d taken him for one of the legion of doe-eyed admirers who have crossed my path over the years. My fan-club, I suppose you would call them. Like so many others, he’d cornered me on the grand staircase of the Academy, brimming with energy and stuffed with tales of my famous cases. The spectacular matter of the Spitzbergen Mammoth! That nasty business with the Italian volcanoes! The explosive urinals of Armitage Shankz and the colourful revenge of the Man with the Wooden Wig! (I’ve never written that one down, have I?). He was a looker too, which never hurts, forever bobbing aside his silly blond fringe and batting his lashes like a flapper at a Valentino flicker. I was absurdly flattered and rather let down my guard.

  Then came a change of regime at the top (more of that later) and Flarge’s attitude began, subtly at first, to alter. Sly jibes here, stifled giggles there. Surely old Boxy was past his best? Time for younger talents to take the lead. Of course what really rankled was the fear that the loathsome creature was right. Hubbard the Cupboard, for instance, should have presented scant challenge for the great Lucifer Box but the bounder had almost bested me, had almost derringered me into oblivion, and if it hadn’t been for that deplorably wiry and sunburnt colleague of mine, he would have succeeded.

  I was startled by the blast of the taxi’s horn and realized I had indeed flaked out on the cracked leather upholstery. At last we shushed through the filthy drifts and pulled up outside the snow-flecked frontage of my hotel. I felt light-headed still and the darkness, coupled with the ugly illumination of headlamps, conspired to make me giddy. Pressing a couple of dollars into the driver’s hairy hand, I clambered out into the cold, rubbing my neck and swiftly making my way into the December-dark lobby. Palm fronds poked out from tobacco-fogged niches where old men, already dressed for dinner, gleefully scanned the obituary columns.

  Exhausted, and anxious to take a proper look at the ‘handkerchief’, I crossed to the lifts and jabbed impatiently at the button. Above my head, a gilded arrow on illumined green glass crawled slowly round. I sank against the wall and sighed heavily. A dull ache was banging behind my eyes and my hand hurt like billy-o. I’d had hell’s time that day.

  When at last the lift arrived and the heavy lattice screen was dragged back, I stepped inside without looking up. The interior was
all walnut.

  ‘Fifteen, ain’t it, Mr Box?’

  I glanced over, and my scowl melted instantly away. It was a bellhop I’d noticed only that morning, red-headed and pale as a Tudor portrait, noticing me from under long-lashed eyes.

  Now he held his head on one side, as though trying to dislodge a marble from his ear, one of those silly round hats at an acute angle on his well-oiled hair. He had huge green eyes and lips as red as raspberries.

  ‘Do we know each other?’ I asked at last.

  He seemed flustered by this and looked away. ‘Um…old Van Buren–that is, Mr Van Buren, the manager, sir. He told me your name. There’s a package come for you and he said, “Rex, you be sure and take that up to Mr Box when he comes back.” And I says, “Is Mr Box that tall, refined-looking gentleman—”’

  ‘Yes, all right. Just bring me the parcel, Rex.’ I stepped out of the lift and looked him directly in his emerald eyes as the grille closed over his face. ‘Room Fifteen-o-eight.’

  Smiling a little to myself and feeling much better, I let myself into said room. It was large and well appointed, a big white divan cover on the bed, cream-coloured leather armchairs in each corner. The warm aura from discreet lamps prevented the whiteness from appearing too stark and I found it immensely comforting after the privations of the outside world.

  Throwing off coat and hat, I reached into my trousers, pulled out Hubbard’s silken rag and carefully unfolded it on one of the pillows.

  Though roughly handkerchief-shaped, it had clearly been torn from a much larger piece of material. Two of the edges were ragged and bore crabbed text in what looked like some species of Latin. The bottom corners were highly decorated with coloured emblems, a picture of a mountain and dragon’s heads. There was a sort of fiery motif, embroidered rather beautifully, the flames licking over what looked like an animal on a spit.

  I examined the thing until my vision swam then decided to abandon it for the night. After all, I was almost certainly clutching at straws. Perhaps Percy Flarge hadn’t bothered with it because it was nothing more than a snotty rag.

  Pulling off my shoes, I padded to the bathroom and ran a tub. It was a huge relief to strip off the sweat-drenched togs and I stood naked for a moment, letting my bare feet sink into the deep white pile of the carpet, before plunging into the bath. The heat made me feel raw. I closed heavy lids and rested my injured hand on the soap dish.

  That I’d failed pretty spectacularly at my mission to rub out Hubbard was scarcely in question. Also, I’d been somewhat humiliated by friend Flarge. But worse things happened at sea, as I knew from that funny old night on the Lusitania. And Hubbard was at least dead, so perhaps I was exaggerating the calamity. Come on, old man, I told myself. Chin up. I was sound in wind and limb and, most importantly, alive.

  Something about this matter, though, didn’t add up. Why were my superiors so keen to bump off small fry like Hubbard? The dreary narcotics trade was surely a police matter. What did it have to do with the RA? And why hadn’t a local been pressed into service?

  Yours not to reason why, Box old chum, you might well say. The doing or dying bit is what counts. But I suddenly didn’t feel like doing much doing–and certainly not dying–if I was being kept in the dark by my superiors.

  Dimly, through the woodwork of the bathroom, I heard a knock at the main door.

  I sighed and ignored it but the caller was insistent.

  ‘Come!’ I bellowed, causing a minor avalanche in the foam that covered my naked bod.

  A creak from without and then a second knock–this time at the bathroom door.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I barked. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

  A muffled voice: ‘Um…Mr Box?’

  I stood up in the tub, reached across for the handle and wrenched at it. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. I’ve had a bloody day and I’m in no mood for–oh!’

  I’d forgotten about the bellhop.

  At the sight of him, the venting of my spleen was very much halted. The lovely red-head looked straight down at my pendulous tackle and blushed. Averting his face, he thrust a brown-paper parcel towards me.

  I frowned at it, sat back into the water, then pulled at the ribbon that was wrapped like liquorice bootlace around the parcel. Inside was a little purple box and inside that, a block of whitish stuff.

  ‘Soap,’ I mused.

  ‘Sir?’ The bellhop was still standing there, his pretty face cast into shadow by the opalescent bulb above.

  ‘It’s a bar of soap,’ I explained. ‘Smelling of–yes–violets and bearing the imprinted word “DISSOLVE”.’

  ‘OK, sir,’ said the boy for no apparent reason. He cleared his throat. ‘Any answer?’

  I looked up, twinkling naughtily. ‘What was the question?’

  He gulped and looked down at his shiny shoes. He seemed new to this lark but was evidently game and just needed a gentle push in the right direction.

  ‘The question, sir? Um…’ He lifted his eyes and looked coyly at me from under his lashes. Nice technique. He’d undoubtedly go far. ‘Might I come in, sir?’ he asked at last.

  ‘The very question I hoped you’d ask. Yes. Come in, won’t you? Shut the door. That’s it. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Rex, sir.’

  ‘Well, Rex, what do you make of it?’ I said, sliding lower under the foam and noticing how very tight and snug were my new friend’s blue trews. ‘Ever heard of a brand of soap called “Dissolve”?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have, sir,’ said Rex, his big Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

  ‘No, no. Most odd. The manufacturers usually favour something more fragrant,’ I continued, then looked sharply at him. ‘Take off your shoes.’

  The boy licked his lips and slipped off his patent-leathers.

  ‘“Dissolve”,’ I murmured, then flicked my gaze back to him. ‘Trousers–erm–pants, if you please. Could it be an instruction to knock about the remainder of our English monasteries? Shirt. Seems most unlikely, Rex, don’t you think? Underthings.’

  ‘I guess,’ said the charming youth, slipping out of the last of his clothes until he stood in only his white socks on the wet mat before me. His toes were outlined in black from the new leather like the brass rubbing of a crusader’s tomb.

  ‘Happily, I think I know its secret,’ I said, dropping the soap into the bathwater. The foam began to bubble and froth and then the whole bar liquefied, spreading a broad purple stain across the water. And lying there on the surface, as though scrawled with a magic wand, was a message.

  Rex gawped and read aloud. ‘Moscow Tea Rooms. 10 a.m. tomorrow. Joshua Reynolds.’

  I wafted my uninjured hand through the water and the message vanished, drifting in inky strands to the enamelled bottom.

  ‘Message from the office,’ I said quietly. ‘I’d’ve been happy with a telegram.’ I glanced up at Rex. ‘Better take your socks off, hmm?’

  The youth hopped from one foot to the other as he divested himself of the last of his clobber, then I took his hand and helped him into the hot bath with me.

  His long legs slid through the fading violet residue of the secret message. He had a smashing smile and shook his red-head wonderingly. ‘Gosh! I ain’t seen nothing like that before!’

  A moment or two later, I presented him with an even nicer surprise.

  3

  A Trip to Neverland

  At eight the next morning, I left the cosy embrace of young Rex (sucked off and buggered if you must know) to keep my appointment with the boss.

  I’d had an uneasy night–once my eyes closed–caught in a nightmarish New York of the future, all sky-scraping apartment blocks and rocket ships, as in those unpleasant German films. The dream-me, wearing only queerly tight underwear with President Coolidge’s name embroidered about the waist, sauntered past the Algonquin, the pavement transformed into a howling white tunnel of cocaine. Overhead, Hubbard the Cupboard was performing dazzling aerobatics like Lucky Lindy, but the smoke trailing fr
om his rocket-ship transformed into narcotics too, falling on my shoulders like snow. As his machine roared past, I distinctly saw bright rivulets of blood pouring from the aviator’s nostrils and the dead man laughing at me, fit to burst.

  Later, out in the real street, I darted between the yellow flashes of the taxi cabs, my brogues tramping through the drifts of mud-coloured slush. Despite the temperature, New York teemed with Christmas activity, the scents of coffee and perfume as vivid as incense. Shopping was approaching fever pitch and I found myself shouldering through crowds like a three-quarter in a greatcoat.

  I was mentally preparing myself for the meeting that the soapy message had foisted on me. Joshua Reynolds awaited my pleasure.

  He was not, alas, the dwarfish chap whom you may have encountered before: the cheeky fellah with the vivid little eyes who’d steered me through countless adventures too numerous or scandalous to mention.

  No, he’d gone the way of all flesh, his titchy heart giving out just one month into the retirement he’d always craved. The name was then passed on like a title–I never did find out the dwarf’s real moniker–and a very different personage had ascended to the top of the Royal Academy’s secret staff.

  We were about of an age but whereas I had taken strenuous efforts to maintain my superlative physique this new J.R. had run to fat. He had the look of a minor bishop–a colonial one, perhaps, always perspiring into his purple and wishing they’d given him the See of Leicester (or something just as dreadful). As I peered in through the window of the tea rooms I could see his rumpled, disappointed face glowing whitely in the gloom like the moon behind clouds in an Atkinson Grimshaw.

  I had a hand on the door knob when I caught sight of a chap on the opposite side of the road. Tallish and well built, I noted a suggestion of tousled curls and pocked skin, briefly brightened by the flare of a match. He drew on his cigar and glanced briefly at me. Did I flatter myself that a flash of something passed between us?