Alien Stars: A Harry Stubbs Adventure

by David Hambling

  “Did it feel like I was?”

  Sammy Gold grinned, and I remembered the exhilaration of my own early days in the ring. The next morning he would be aching, but that night, he was on top of the world.

  “You’re a good fighter. I’ll give you some tips later,” I said.

  I shook hands with Gold’s trainer.

  “The raw material’s all there,” he said confidentially. “I’ve just got to keep him away from wine, women, and song for the next few years. Easier said than done with some women.”

  When I emerged from the changing room, a boy pushed through the well-wishers to tug my sleeve and tell me that Mr Skinner needed to see me at once. I found him sitting in one corner at a folding card table. Opposite him was a blond lady in an outfit of filmy, clinging material. She was dressed more stylishly than I would have expected for one of Skinner’s companions, and by any conventional standards, she was beautiful.

  I wondered at first if she was one of that breed of upper-class women who were excited by the sight of blood. They would come to see you after a fight, eyes shining, and paw at your biceps while their male companions—short, fat, balding—watched with neutral expressions and burning eyes. But her manner was more that of a teacher who had witnessed a playground scrap than a boxing enthusiast, and she seemed bored rather than excited.

  “Harry,” said Skinner, winking at me, “allow me to introduce Miss Estelle De Vere from the United States.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” She inclined her head slightly. I had never heard a real American accent before. It was something like Irish but milder.

  Up close, her looks were even more striking. Her figure, her complexion, her features were flawless. I was uncomfortably aware of my misshapen nose and mutilated ear.

  “Miss De Vere tells me she is writing about British sporting life,” said Skinner. “As your agent, I said you won’t mind being interviewed.”

  Miss De Vere fitted a cigarette into an ivory holder. Skinner was ready with a struck match as soon as she raised it to her coral-pink lips.

  “We don’t get many women in here,” I said.

  “I go where the story takes me,” she said, blowing smoke and speaking as though she could hardly be bothered to make the effort. I was to find she was more used to getting answers than providing them. “I guess that’s something you two gentlemen… can understand.”

  The bag on her lap matched her dress. One hand rested on it as though ready to draw a weapon. For some reason, I immediately wondered if she was one of those women who carried a bottle of vitriol around with them for self-defence. She was not quite so relaxed as she wished to appear.

  “Is this interview to be mainly about boxing?” Skinner asked.

  “Only if you can’t think of anything more important to talk about.” She was cool and amused, verging on rudeness. I suppose you might say she was provocative. Like Elsie Granger, Miss De Vere had the determination to seek us out in our own haunts. But the two women were otherwise quite unalike. Elsie was raw and brash; Miss De Vere was smooth and feline. Where Elsie was brassy, Estelle was refined, spun gold.

  We did not know how much she knew about our investigations, and Sally had not provided much information. You could waste a lot of time dancing about at the start of a fight and tire yourself out, so I decided to take the direct approach.

  “There is the matter of Miss Mabel Brown,” I said. “Maybe you could shed some light on that.”

  I do believe she blinked, but she replied with the same easy drawl. “She played with fire. You know what happens… when you play with fire?”

  “You get burned,” I said.

  “Ex-actly. Just like that unfortunate Mr Higgs. I guess you had a pretty close shave there.” She looked up at me from under her lowered lashes. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “We’re masters of improvisation,” said Skinner. “But we can always use a few pointers if you’d like to clue us in.”

  “Well, now. You fellows are in a dangerous line of business. Some of us think Pandora’s box should stay shut.”

  “I’m afraid you might have to elaborate on that,” I said.

  “Greek myth. The gods give this woman a box with all the troubles of the world in it. Her husband is warned not to open it, but of course, curiosity gets the better of her. Pandora opens the box and…”

  She made butterflies with her hands; her frosted pink fingernails matched her lips. My own hands on the table were hairy paws, meaty and clumsy.

  “They had to blame a woman, of course. Truth is, it’s always men who open the box. Always letting out all kinds of trouble. Men like…” She looked upwards to let us know she was referring to Stafford.

  “What about Mabel Brown?” I asked.

  “She got caught up in the middle. She died by… misadventure. I tidied up the mess afterwards.”

  “You said ‘us,’” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Yes, I did say ‘us.’” The blue eyes were amused by my attempts at interrogation. “An association of like-minded people. Between us, we have a certain amount of influence. And we’d like to prevent… more serious misadventures.”

  Usually, Skinner asked the questions, but he seemed content just to sit by Miss De Vere, a lizard basking in the warmth of the sun.

  “The sort of misadventure that might be brought about by gentleman scholars,” I said.

  “Those old forbidden books are forbidden for a reason,” she said. “But some people just don’t get the message. They find these loose threads in the fabric of reality, and they just can’t leave them alone. Someone has to stop them unravelling it.”

  I thought of the Shackleton case and also the Theosophical Circle and its too-great enthusiasm for the study of palingenesis. Both had been instances of Pandora’s boxes being opened, with disastrous results for those concerned. And also, of course, I thought of our patron and how his interest had indirectly caused the deaths of Mabel Brown and Higgs. And there was Pierce the under-gardener, whose condition was not likely to be coincidental to the current matter at hand.

  “Are you warning us off?” I asked.

  She smiled as though that was a ridiculous idea. “You’re hired guns; you have to work to eat. But you’re not… obsessed. When the boss man tells you to go ahead and open the box, maybe you’ll have other ideas.” She crossed her legs, a movement that absorbed Skinner’s attention.

  “You want us to carry on and find this thing,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.” She placed two business cards in the middle of the table. “The number for my answering service is on the card. Call me anytime. You won’t be sorry.”

  “Estelle De Vere, Psy. D.” said the card, followed by the number and “Regent’s Park 6425.” Beneath was, “Theral Development Society.”

  “Is Psy. D to do with psychical research?”

  “Nice try. But it’s a psychology doctorate. Though psychology is closer to table rapping than you might think. You know what theral means?”

  I shook my head.

  “Whatever I want it to mean,” she said, laughing at me with her eyes.

  “Cormorant fishing,” I said.

  A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “In China, instead of a rod and line or a net, the fishermen go out on a boat with ten or a dozen cormorants. You know the birds I mean?”

  “It’s like a cross between a crow and a duck,” said Skinner.

  “The cormorant dives down and catches fish. But the cunning Chinese put metal rings round their neck so they can’t swallow, and when they come, up the fisherman takes the fish off them. The fisherman gets the fish, but the cormorant does all of the work.”

  She smiled for the first time. It was a memorable smile, warmer than I would have expected. “Yeah. That’s about it. A man with a strong… motivation can find the things that nobody else can. You just have to follow them until they do. And that’s how we get to Pandora’s box first. Cormorant fishing.”


  If you hid a bottle from a drinker, he would tear the place apart looking for it and find things in places you could not even imagine. Stafford was like that, with that driven streak that meant he would keep on looking for his Holy Grail.

  As we picked up the cards, she stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray with a gesture of finality. “Now, I have a dinner date at the Ritz with one of your police commissioners.” She did not sound as though she was looking forward to it. “He’s going to tell me about criminal psychology. His wife is out of town. I’m sure it’ll be fascinating.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” said Skinner.

  She walked with an exaggerated gait on high heels, each step watched by every eye in the place.

  “Now, she is what I call a real woman.” Skinner sat down again, picking up the remaining card. “She had a limousine with a driver waiting for her, if you can believe that.”

  “I’m only surprised it wasn’t an aeroplane.”

  “A real woman,” he repeated. To me, though, Miss De Vere was unreal. She did not seem to be the same flesh and blood as us. It was impossible to think that she sweated and stank as we did, that she ate human food or had bodily functions. She was more like a projection or something out of a dream.

  Chapter Nine: Expulsion from Eden

  The three female librarians were in a huddle around the enquiries desk. From their postures and strained expressions, I divined that there was some difficulty. When I asked for Mr Hoade, they looked at each other before one of them responded.

  “He’s in the Reading Room. He’ll be back in a minute.”

  I made my way to the far side of the building, where a contretemps was in progress. Mr Hoade, being the male, had been sent to deal with a rowdy patron. While understandable, that was a flawed strategy. Some of those lady librarians could freeze water at thirty paces with a look. They could easily quell a man who would have been honour-bound to stand up to a male librarian.

  And so it proved. Hoade was remonstrating with a character with slicked-back hair and a dirty collar. The man had been tearing out pieces from the newspaper, probably the Situations Vacant column.

  “This is a public library,” hissed Hoade. “And I am asking you to leave.”

  “I know it’s a public library,” said the other in a barrack-room voice. “And I’m a member of the public! I’ve got every right to be here—I pay your wages. You can’t push me around!”

  Some of the others, fellow members of the unemployed, gave a murmur of assent. Nobody liked an officious librarian, and the paper tearer was obviously considered a wit in their circle.

  “You keep your voice down,” said Hoade, “and I won’t ask you again to leave.”

  “Oh, won’t you? That’ll be a relief. ‘Cause I’m not going.”

  That brought a burst of laughter from the onlookers.

  “Shall I talk to this gentleman?” I asked.

  Hoade jumped, surprised by my presence. I do move quietly at times.

  “What an excellent idea,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll go and attend to matters in the reference section.”

  I took a step towards the loud-voiced man, moving not too close but close enough to loom over him. “Fun’s over. You—hop it,” I said quietly.

  He looked round his audience with an expression that said, Now, what do we have here?

  “Me—public; this—public library,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Get your zookeeper to explain it.”

  There was another burst of tittering.

  “If you lay a finger on me, I’ll have the law on you,” he added. “Besides, what’s it got to do with you?”

  He knew better than to offer physical resistance. He “knew his rights,” as his sort always did, and he was daring me to put myself in the wrong. While I hesitated, he would try to humiliate me by verbal means. The spectacle of a big man made to look foolish and tongue-tied was a popular attraction, as I knew all too well.

  On that occasion, though, I was already on the front foot and laid into him verbally. “Our public library is an important national institution. It makes books and other reading material available to the likes of you and me. It’s a treasure house of education, a fount of helpful instruction and information, an invaluable and inexhaustible stock for the schoolboy and the workingman alike. It is a great golden staircase of knowledge that is wide enough for all to climb upwards together.”

  “Is that so?” he said, taken slightly aback.

  “Around us is gathered the wisdom of the great minds of the ages, the collected knowledge of all the world, classified by the latest scientific methods. Libraries are the cornerstone of our British civilisation. This is our heritage. This is all we have achieved in the world, these books here. The library is the concrete manifestation of all we hold most dear: democracy, culture, and the free expression of ideas.”

  “You sound like you’ve swallowed an encyclopaedia,” was all he could mutter. It was a lame retort, and he knew it.

  “An assault on the library is an attack on the fabric of our nation, and the library deserves to be defended with full force. So the likes of you can stay out of it until you learn to treat the institution with the respect it deserves.”

  On that last line, I put both hands on the chair legs, hoisted it into the air with him still sitting there, and shouldered it.

  “Hey!” he protested, clinging to the seat with both hands.

  “I haven’t laid a finger on you.” I proceeded to march to the main door.

  He did not make much fuss. If he attacked me, I could simply drop him. Nor did he shout; there were few words more humiliating for a grown man to utter than “put me down.” He did not draw attention to his unceremonious ejection.

  Someone politely opened the door for me. I stepped outside and tipped my passenger out, placing the chair behind me. I did not want him coming in again.

  “You think you’re clever,” he said, turning to face me.

  Like many another, he thought that a surprise attack would give him all the advantage he needed. I could see the kick coming a mile off just from the way he altered his stance to deliver it. A boot to the groin was hardly the most original move. People seemed to think that because I was a boxer, I had no notion of defending against anything unless it was in the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules.

  As he kicked out, I stepped back smartly and caught his foot at the height of the kick. I held it in both my hands, with his leg fully extended, while he struggled vainly, and I looked at him reproachfully.

  He managed to pull his foot loose, leaving me holding his shoe.

  “Ha-ha!” he said.

  “Ho-ho,” said I and lobbed the shoe onto the back of a passing dustcart.

  The lout looked at his shoe disappearing down the road. He swore at me more than necessary and ran after the dustcart, with a hobbling gait, on one stocking-clad foot.

  An old man with a walking stick, who had paused to watch the fracas, shook his head disapprovingly. “That’s no good. A fellow your size should have taught him a proper lesson for fighting dirty like that and given him a good hiding.”

  The public always wanted a good fight. I shrugged apologetically and, as the lout receded farther down the High Street in pursuit of his disappearing shoe, returned to the library with the chair. A man in a ragged shirt gave me a look. I suspected he was one of the lout’s supporters, and when I scowled at him, he scuttled off.

  Skinner said I should use my scowl more.

  Mr Hoade seemed pleased to see me. “A very interesting discovery. The Knyght’s Head is so called not after a generic knight, as you might have expected with a public house, but after a certain Mr Knyght, whose family owned land here in the sixteenth century. This is the same man that Knight’s Hill is named for.”

  He polished his glasses, keeping me waiting for a denouement.

  “Apparently, his decapitated body was found nearby, this being after a dispute with another local worthy, Sir Robert Harcourt. So the
‘Knyght’s Head’ is in the nature of a macabre pun.”

  I was disappointed, but then he gave his little smile, eyes twinkling, and I saw that, in his own way, he had been joking, teasing me with that meaningless titbit.

  Hoade’s real discovery was something far more important. “But perhaps you’re more interested in this.” He wrote out on a slip of paper the letters B-A-E-T-Y-L. “Pronounced, more or less, ‘beetle.’ The OED came to the rescue, as usual.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Baetyl, from the Latin baetulus, from the ancient Greek baitulos,” Hoade recited. “Pliny the Elder used the Latin word betuli specifically to distinguish round stones from oblong ones, which he termed ceraunioi. Baetyl, beetle—it’s the right word. It comes from Greek, and it refers to something small and valuable that would fit the description.”

  “So a baetyl is a stone?”

  “A rough stone. Specifically, a stone with a soul. A sacred stone hurled down from the heavens, one that is worshipped as a god. In practical terms, it refers to a stone that is, or rather is believed to be, a meteorite or aerolite. They were not uncommon as idols in the Greek and Semitic world.”

  “A meteorite,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, there’s nothing more than that on our shelves here. But I’ve put in requests for the relevant textbooks from our other branches.”

  “That’s very good of you.”

  “It’s my job.” Hoade spoke almost emotionlessly, but I thought I detected a ring of pride. “I was looking at your previous borrowings from the reference library in Upper Norwood, and you appear to have rather eclectic interests—Antarctic exploration, alchemy, theosophy, Chinese history, and now ancient religion. Though not boxing, which I gather is your particular area of expertise. As our friend in the Reading Room no doubt discovered.”

  When I gaped, he added, “I wondered if you might be a sportsman, and there is indeed a ‘Stubbs, H’ recorded in the annals.” It was a small display of his prowess.

  “I suppose I would be,” I said.

  I guessed that when Hoade was bored, he looked things up to entertain himself as easily as Skinner might whittle a stick. It was alarming that my history could be so easily uncovered. An interested person might be able to reconstruct my activities from my reading record. That might be dangerous if someone like Hoade was working for an enemy.