Alien Stars: A Harry Stubbs Adventure

by David Hambling

  “Once, when I was a boy, I got lost in the woods. The sun had moved out of sight, and the darkness was growing… and I saw something wonderful, something that changed my life. It was a burning bush—a bramble bush with a cold, prismatic light playing over and through it without consuming it. Of course, I knew my Bible, and I was terrified. I ran away as fast as I could… if only I had known about Blake’s vision, his tree of angels with their ‘bright angelic wings bespangling every bough like stars.’”

  I made a mental note to find out more about William Blake, though I suspected he was tangential at best.

  “The next day, I set out to find it. When I got there, the brambles were gone, crumbled away to nothingness, leaving only fine grey dust. All that was left was one withered stalk with a couple of leaves and a single berry.”

  That made my scalp prickle. “Palingenesis,” I whispered.

  “Something very like it,” said Stafford.

  “Palingenesis is an alchemical trick whereby a plant, burned to ashes and crushed to powder, can be restored to life,” I told Skinner. “But only for a time, then it returns to powder.”

  “I knew that fire was something extraordinary like the Pentecostal tongues of flame or the Holy Spirit itself,” Stafford went on. “For years, I forgot about it completely. Then just a few months ago, I saw it again—in the heavens.”

  “How was that, sir?” Skinner enquired.

  “I was looking for a periodic body with my telescope, one that has been hinted at by the Arabs but never confirmed by European astronomers. Such bodies appear only rarely in our skies in their eccentric orbits. When I saw it, I knew it at once. It was a nebular glory unlike anything in the catalogues, a living, moving thing in space. A hundred years ago, they might have called it an angelic host. I tried to capture it on a photographic plate, but all I could get were dull blurs. The glass could not hold it. The next night, it was gone. None of the astronomers I corresponded with saw it—or admitted to seeing it—but I knew that it must mean something. It woke something in me.”

  “That would be when you employed me,” said Skinner.

  “And you have been invaluable,” said Stafford. “I found there were connections with other mysteries and strange sidelights on points referred to by Paracelsus—much of it thanks to you, Skinner. That was when I put out an advertisement, one that would only be understood by those who know, and I started to get replies.”

  “I’m glad to be of service.”

  “Such a shame about the Theosophical Circle,” Stafford said to me. “Yeats, he was on the trail—him and some of the others in the Golden Dawn. If only he hadn’t gone to the Irish Free State! He knew about the ‘silver apples of the moon…’”

  W. B. Yeats, the noted poet, had associations with the theosophists, including the Theosophical Circle, which had been torn apart in the Roslyn D’Onston business. He was also a member of the Golden Dawn, a society dedicated to the study of magic. But the reference to silver apples left me baffled.

  “I’m not familiar with that one, sir,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was just a thought. I say, does either of you know Eliot’s The Waste Land?”

  “T. S. Eliot’s poetry is a little too modern for me, sir,” I said.

  “I’m rambling,” he said suddenly. “I’m sorry. I must sound like an absolute raving lunatic sometimes! My nerves are shot after today’s business. I don’t know what I would have done without you. But I’m trying to get to the point. My advertisements had some positive results. Most of the replies were obvious frauds, but a couple… I was too eager. I sent money, and my correspondent wanted more and still more before she would send me the sample. This was via a Post Office Box number.”

  “Luckily, though,” said Skinner picking up the story, “the identity of a box owner could be established with some persistence and greasing of palms, which I duly undertook. And that was what led us to Miss Mabel Brown. The late Miss Mabel Brown.”

  “Dreadful what happened to her,” said Stafford offhandedly. “But we must find the sample she had and, most importantly, where it came from.”

  “We’ll find it,” said Skinner. “Though it would be helpful if you could supply more some particulars of what this thing or substance is. Or how it relates to beetles.”

  “I don’t know anything about beetles,” said Stafford, and I could hear the frown in his voice. “But I guarantee that you will know when you find it. You will not mistake the Holy Grail! If only I can find it, ah, then…”

  Stafford seemed to lapse into reverie in the dark.

  After a decent interval, Skinner asked, “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all,” Stafford said, rising stiffly to his feet and brushing off grass. “I hope you’ve found this useful. I do so want you to understand how much it means, this search.”

  “We do understand, sir,” said Skinner, counterfeiting enthusiasm. “You can rely on us to do our duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” I added.

  “Very good.” Stafford turned to go. “You have your instructions. Carry on.”

  “What was the significance of all that?” I asked in an undertone when Stafford was a safe distance away.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Harry. Just nod and agree with them as though it makes perfect sense—that’s what I do.” He laughed.

  “What does he mean with all that stuff about stars?”

  “You mean, what does it have to do with the price of fish? Nothing that I can see. Anyway, you’ve met him now. Puts things in a new light, doesn’t it?”

  I had made certain assumptions about the man I was working for—that he would be a wise and learned man with a secret fund of knowledge. I had not expected that he would be a lone eccentric who talked fervently about God and stars and poetry and the Holy Grail.

  “And what was that about Paracelsus?” I asked. I knew him as the hero of Browning’s epic and, more importantly, the alchemist who had first discovered palingenesis.

  “Oh, him,” said Skinner as though the sixteenth-century physician was someone he had met in the pub. “He wrote about stars and their effect on health, and minerals in spring waters and suchlike. I had to acquire some of his manuscripts for our patron. By hook and by crook.”

  “Was that difficult?”

  Skinner chuckled at the recollection. “It is when the books don’t even exist! There are some very eccentric gentlemen in the antiquarian book business who are worse than him by a long chalk. And mugs like you and me running around finding things for them. Still, it’s no worse than the war. The money is better, and there’s less mud and shelling.” And though he would never admit to it, Skinner loved the adventure as much as I did. “We’ve time for another drink before closing time, and I expect you could use one right now.”

  “Not for me.” I knew that Skinner would be on the brandy and would get morose and start talking about the war. He was a man whose drinking went through stages. For the first drink or two, he would be garrulous, cheerful, and making a joke out of everything. Then he would mellow and enter a quieter phase, letting others do the talking. Then towards the end, he would get melancholy, and all his old grievances would come out. Skinner had never freed himself of the war, and he took his dark recollections out and polished them like service medals.

  While most men got more boisterous with drink, Skinner was normally cheerful when sober but was overcome by a slough of misery rising from some inner depths when alcohol dissolved the barrier holding it back. I preferred my drinking companions a bit more cheersome. Besides, it was getting late.

  Chapter Five: An Unexpected Visitor

  I had been in the office for some time, writing out my notes and making a list of many questions and a few possible leads, when Skinner finally showed up. He looked seedy. Evidently, the night had not refreshed him.

  “Morning, Harry. I’ve such a head on me today… you’re bright and early as always.”

  “I’ve been trying to make some se
nse of it all,” I said.

  “Give up on that for starters,” he said, slumping in his chair. “Let’s just do what we’re told. I’m happy to say that two cups of Horniman’s finest should be coming through shortly, and then I’ll start functioning. I’m just sorry I didn’t put in an order for a stiff brandy with it.”

  “Soda water would do you more good,” I said. “And my trainer swore by raw eggs for a hangover.”

  Skinner made a face, but at that moment, I heard a commotion and raised female voices in the outer office. We both looked round as the door opened, and in marched Elsie Granger.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Aren’t you going to offer a lady a seat?”

  I sprang up to give her my chair, there being only two in the room. She looked smaller than the previous night, wearing a modest lavender dress with long sleeves and a high neck, but still formidable. She carefully removed her cloche hat and placed it on the desk.

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” said Skinner, covering his confusion. “And you seemed almost unfriendly last night.”

  I was wondering how she could have found us, though in hindsight I suppose we were quite a distinctive pair. Perhaps one of her cohorts had found out our identities from the police constable, or maybe someone had recognised me from the ring.

  “She’s gone,” said Elsie, fixing him with a hard look. “I went to Mabel’s rooming house. She’s disappeared with just the clothes on her back and one suitcase. I want to know what you know about it. And I want my letter back.”

  “We’re not responsible,” I said. “We just wanted to talk to her.”

  Elsie’s eyes traversed the office, from Skinner to me and back. “Insurance business, is it? Insuring what, might I ask?”

  “I believe we mentioned our interest in the beetle,” said Skinner, with emphasis on the last word. “And that’s all about it.”

  “All I know is that she has this thing, and she was trying to sell it,” Elsie shot back. “She was scared of the people who wanted it—I expect she meant you two. She asked me about getting some lads for protection while she did the deal.”

  Everything that Elsie said we could have gathered from the letter, but she told us as though she was conveying new information. “Now, you tell me what happened to her.”

  “Somebody killed her,” said Skinner.

  “Killed?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Elsie swore under her breath the way you might if you stubbed a toe. But she did not seem surprised.

  “We don’t know who. The only clue we have is this.” Skinner brandished Elsie’s letter to Mabel Brown, keeping it out of her reach. “Maybe we should give it to the police.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  I snatched the letter out of Skinner’s hand. Hung-over as he was, he was not quick enough to offer any resistance. I handed it to Elsie Granger.

  “We’re investigators, not blackmailers, Miss Granger,” I said. “And we’d greatly appreciate your assistance. We need to locate this ‘beetle.’ We haven’t even got a good description of it at present, but I’m sure it will lead us to her killer.”

  I strove to ignore Skinner’s angry glare.

  “Well, now,” she said, slipping the letter into her bag and tucking it protectively under her arm. “Thank you kindly, Mr—Stubbs, is it? I honestly don’t know anything; I never even saw it. It’s not a beetle beetle—I know that. It’s a Greek thing. And she said it was ever so valuable.”

  “I don’t suppose she mentioned how she came by it?” Skinner asked.

  “Not likely!” She practically laughed in his face. “I barely talked to her. I knew Mabel years ago at school. She went off to the West End to be an actress.” From Elsie’s tone, actress was a cut or two below barmaid. “I never even heard from her until a week ago, when she comes round out of the blue, asking for my help. I never asked where she got it… maybe an admirer gave it to her. Or she stole it from him, more like.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” said Skinner.

  “It’s all you’re getting,” she retorted. “And if there are any official investigations, you’ll see my name doesn’t come up, won’t you?” She held Skinner’s gaze for a moment. “I know how to find you now.”

  “Thank you very much for helping us, Miss Granger,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, standing up and taking her hat. “I’ll see meself out.”

  She went with a confident step, and shut the door behind her with some force.

  “That’s a woman as would rattle your bedroom windows,” said Skinner half-admiringly.

  I was thinking more about how little interest Elsie Granger had taken in the death of her friend. She had barely asked after Mabel Brown. Her attention was stuck on the fabulously valuable beetle.

  “I’m sorry I acted out of turn with that letter.”

  “‘Out of turn’ doesn’t cover it! You seem to forget that I’m in charge around here.” Skinner was not given to being officious, but he was sensitive to being shown up in front of others.

  “It was a spur-of -the-moment thing. I thought relinquishing the letter would—”

  “Oh, leave off,” he said, softening. “It doesn’t matter. I reckon we got everything we were likely to get out of her anyway.” He raised his fists, about as menacing as a boisterous kitten. “But if you ever flout my authority again, Stubbs, I’ll beat you a pulp with my own two hands!”

  I could not help laughing, and the atmosphere was restored. Skinner’s mood was further improved when one of the office girls came through with a tray bearing two steaming mugs.

  “My angel!” he said. She fled, giggling through her hands.

  “And now we’re pretty certain,” said Skinner, between blowing on his tea, “that the body in the suitcase was Mabel Brown and that someone killed her and took the body away—and most probably our elusive beetle at the same time. So who could that someone be?”

  “Logically, it must needs be one of the other occupants of the rooming house. Or else they would have to be uncommonly quiet and sneaky. Sneak in, murder Mabel Brown and put her body in the case, sneak out before we come, sneak in again, and then sneak out with the suitcase, all without being seen.”

  “Makes more sense for it to be one of the residents. We need a woman on the inside to find out. See if that suitcase, and the beetle, are still on the premises.” I could see Skinner’s mind working. “The landlady has decided Mabel Brown has gone, so she’ll advertise that room for let. All we need to do is get our girl to take it.”

  “Our girl. How about Elsie Granger?”

  “No! As if they’d let a barmaid in a respectable place like that anyway. What we need is a decent girl who can let the room and make some discreet enquiries about who’s who. Anyone spring to mind?”

  “It’s no use asking me,” I said. “You’re the one with all the acquaintance among the fairer sex.”

  “Lucky in love,” he said. He appeared to be going through a mental filing system of likely women, smiling with fond if vague recollection. “Not so many respectable ones, though.”

  I also doubted how many of them he was still on good terms with. Skinner’s many amours, by his own admission, were brief flings. They floated like bubbles, sometimes for as long as a week, before bursting. Mostly these liaisons dissolved with the dawn, and next day, he did not always remember her name.

  That might put the burden on me. I had never before considered my lack of female acquaintances. Apart from my sister-in-law and a few sisters of friends, I was not on first-name terms with any women. Debt collection, the pub, and the boxing gym were my world, not circles in which women were admitted.

  “We could ask one of the women here, one that you get on with,” I said, nodding towards the door and the chinaware-packing concern beyond.

  Skinner chewed his moustache a moment. “No, not a casual acquaintance. We need someone we can trust.”

  “Come to think of it, there might be one woman I know.
She doesn’t exactly owe me a favour, but—”

  “Ask her then,” said Skinner. “We can pay, if that’ll help. All she needs to do is find out who in that house knew Mabel Brown, who talked to her—and who might have that suitcase in her room. “

  “And there’s something else,” I said, pulling out the slip of paper I had found as a bookmark in The Prairie Bride.

  “D’you think those notes mean anything? Janitor? Archivist?”

  “Not the notes—look at the paper,” I said. Skinner looked at it, starting to read the recipe for duck ragout before I drew his attention to the edges of the paper. “It’s been cut out of a book. She didn’t tear out the whole page from Mrs Beeton; she sliced out a rectangular section in the middle. And I was thinking, why would she do that? And then I thought, maybe she cut out hundreds of pages—”

  “And hollowed the book out to make a secret compartment,” Skinner concluded. “We never searched the books. So that’s where it was hidden.”

  “And just maybe it still is.”

  “That’s a long, long shot, Bombardier. But we’d be fools to pass up the chance. This woman of yours—how soon can you talk to her?”

  Chapter Six: The Spy

  I am not by any means a habitué of tearooms, and my visits are invariably on family occasions when the gang of us gather for a celebration with fancy cakes and sweet biscuits. I am always aware of the risk of damage to the fragile crockery, and I move carefully so as not to upset the entire table. Much as I enjoy fairy cakes, the experience is never entirely comfortable even when I’m surrounded by my family.

  How much more it played on my nerves to be sitting at a table on my own, feeling eyes on me from all sides, waiting for a lady. Who’s he waiting for? The thoughts were so loud I could almost hear them.