Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  “Pretty much, although you’d need quite a bit of specialist knowledge to get a lot of the stuff in them to work. Some of the rites and rituals need particular places to be visited or certain people to be present, and some of them need specific artefacts or relics, if you get my drift.”

  Jekyll smacked a hand on his knee.

  “Of course. All the time there’s me thinking that Vortex is the problem, but as it turns out the chances are that it’s Flange. He’s the one doing the studying, he’s the one who’s mysteriously disappeared and hasn’t been seen since this whole thing started. And he’s got access to anything he wants at the museum.”

  “Looks like you may have a tangible lead. It’s quite exciting, this detective business, isn’t it?” said Scorpio enthusiastically. “I must admit I always had a hankering to do some law enforcement work, but I never seemed to get round to it. So, what are you going to do now?”

  “Go to the museum. Starch can show me the maps and clues that the boys are using, so I should be able to work out both where they’ve been and, more importantly, where they’re going. Once we’ve figured that out, it’s a case of getting there. The least I can do is warn them.”

  “Can’t you get in touch by phone?”

  “I’ve tried a couple of times. There’s no signal at all trying to call mobile to mobile. I’ve got Singh on standby instead. Once I’ve finished at the museum, we’ll head off. Mandeep is an amazing driver and his car has more horsepower than a budget burger.”

  Scorpio smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  “Can I come with you?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Why would you want to do that? We’re only heading off to warn them about Flange and, well, whatever may happen. If anything.”

  “I know, but it’s still a little bit of excitement isn’t it. It gets a bit boring round here.” She came towards him and rubbed the lapel of his coat tenderly. “And besides, I’m rather enjoying your company, if I’m being completely honest.”

  Jekyll thought for a moment, not sure whether it was a good idea or not. She might be keen, but he didn’t want to put her in any danger. And besides, he was beginning to enjoy her company as well.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he said once he had made up his mind, “so if you are coming, then we need to leave as soon as possible. I’ll meet you outside in five minutes.”

  Four minutes and thirty seven seconds later they pulled up in front of the museum. Jekyll told Singh to keep the car running whilst he and Scorpio dashed inside to see Starch.

  They found him pottering about in his office. (At what age do you officially start to potter about? When you’re a kid you muck about and play around. As a teenager you hang out with your friends and as an adult you go out or even workout if you’re feeling particularly energetic. But it isn’t until you retire, start wearing beige slacks that you bought after seeing an advert in a Sunday newspaper supplement, and watching Songs of Praise and The Antiques Roadshow that you have reached the age that you are considered to be one who potters about. A strange point, but one that definitely needed clarifying).

  “Ah, Miss Bytheway. Lovely to see you. And Dr. Jekyll, always a pleasure. What can I do for you today?”

  Jekyll went on to explain the situation that he found himself in and the fact that, despite his previous misgivings about Vortex, the evidence seemed to be pointing at Flange, which is why he hadn’t been seen for a while.

  Starch ruminated over what he had heard for a few minutes, carefully considering the available facts before answering.

  “Whilst I can see what you’re saying, Dr. Jekyll, didn’t we cover the same ground when we spoke about Vortex? I don’t wish to cast doubts on your investigation methods or the conclusions that you’ve arrived at, but it would seem to me that you’re basing your hypothesis on, what is at best, circumstantial evidence.”

  “Please, there’s no need to apologise,” said Jekyll without a trace of anger in his voice, despite what Starch had said. “And don’t worry about offending me because I know how it all sounds. To be honest, I think I’m even getting to the point where those shadows I’m chasing are even more insubstantial than I first thought.”

  Starch sat in his chair and regarded the troubled Doctor.

  “Don’t forget, though, that we still have the theft to consider. That is something tangible that has occurred, for whatever reason. It doesn’t mean that anything terrible is going to arise, but I’m sure that your colleagues have things well in hand. Once they’ve returned, I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “Well, that brings us back to why I came here in the first place. Have you managed to decipher the clues in the last couple of days?”

  “Oh yes. It proved to be a most interesting exercise and between the two us, Vortex and I figured out the riddles.”

  So Vortex is keeping abreast of things regarding the cup, thought Jekyll. Maybe this wasn’t such a dead end after all.

  “Excellent,” said Jekyll. “What were the locations that you came up with?”

  Starch went through some of the papers on his desk, found what he was looking for and went through them with Jekyll.

  “And this,” he said, indicating the final paragraph, “is the last place, and to be frank, this one was ridiculously simple when compared to the others.”

  “How do you mean?” Jekyll asked.

  “Read the clue,” he answered, handing it over.

  Jekyll looked at the piece of paper and shook his head.

  “Drive two hours north. Okay, from where?”

  “The Cornucopia Zoo. The location itself is the final clue,” said Starch.

  “Superb,” said Jekyll, gathering the various notes together. “We’ll start at Tonboot and go from there. We’re bound to pick them up at some point.”

  “Excuse me,” said Scorpio, shyly raising a hand as if embarrassed to interrupt the two men. “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course, my dear. Any and all input will be greatly appreciated,” said Starch.

  “How long have they been gone?” she asked, pleased to be involved in the process.

  “About five days now,” said Jekyll.

  “Mmmm,” she said, mulling the information over. “So the chances are that this far in they’re going to have made quite a bit of progress, and given that the distances between the locations aren’t that great, wouldn’t it make more sense to start at the last one and work backwards? I think we’d have a much better chance of catching up with them sooner if we head straight to Cornucopia, find the zoo and head north.”

  “That is an excellent observation, Miss Bytheway. What a sharp mind you have for a young lady,” commented Starch with a latent sexism that he was blissfully unaware of.

  “I see your point,” said Jekyll, “but how on earth are we going to get there in time. It must be a good couple of hundred miles at least.”

  “What car have you got?” Scorpio asked.

  “A three litre fuel injection Ebony Casket. Why?” he replied.

  “Top speed?”

  “A hundred and forty, give or take.”

  “Good. And how fast does the hearse that the boys are using go?”

  “We’ll, from what I’ve been led to believe, it’s a right hunk of junk. The guy who sold it to them reckoned thirty, maybe forty. But that’s off a cliff with a tail wind.”

  “Right,” she said, “give me a minute.” She got a pen and paper from Starch’s desk and did some rapid fire calculations.

  “Okay, factoring in a bit of time for quests, travelling, etc etc., there’s a very real possibility that we could get there and meet up with them, or failing that, stumble across them at some point as we work our way backwards.”

  “Sounds a bit wafty,” said Jekyll, a hint of doubt in his voice. He could see what she was getting at but he wasn’t too happy with the wing and a prayer attitude. There was a very real potential for things to go spectacularly, badly wrong.

  Scorpio raised her eyebrows and pl
anted her hands on her slender hips. A wry smile played across her lovely face.

  “Come on, Henry, work with me a little bit. I know we’re somewhat in the dark but it’s not like we haven’t got any idea what’s going on. Have a bit of faith, or if that’s too difficult, hell, just go with the flow. At least we get to tear up the countryside in that souped up rocket of yours.”

  “Quite right, my dear,” said Starch, “always pays to look on the bright side, I feel. If a hundred and seven years of marriage has taught me anything, it’s always look on the bright side. And to have patience obviously, how to tune out conversations about the WI (Witches Institute), the fact that not moving a piece of plastic ninety degrees drives a woman insane for some reason…”

  Jekyll and Scorpio crept from the room.

  (N.B it is a well-known fact that when a gentleman leaves a toilet seat in the upright position, it is guaranteed to drive his female partner wild, usually culminating in a heavily worded lecture about laziness or, in direct opposition to this, the silent treatment, during which the aforementioned gentleman has to guess what his misdemeanour actually is. No more I say. For generations, men have suffered unjustly for not performing this action. Well, it is time for us to strike back and take the cistern by the chain. Next time you need to pay the bathroom a visit for a number one and you find that the toilet seat is down, call your companion and ask her why, oh why is it that every time I come in here the damn lid is down. Don’t you know how hard it is to lift the thing up ninety degrees so that I can go? It’s laziness, pure and simple, and it’s got to stop. Fellow man, I urge you to reclaim your toilet.

  Given time I think that the balance will be redressed, and the inequality of loo seat positioning will become a thing of the past and equality in the water closet will become the norm, as I’m sure my wife would agree. If I was in contact with her of course. I haven’t seen her for six months since she kicked me out for being unreasonable, so I’ve been living in my car. Well, I was. I left the top up and it rained…Oh, I see!)

  * * *

  The hearse rumbled along the road like a dinosaur on wheels.

  “Go North for two hours,” said Ollie, “that seems fairly easy. A nice straight road, get there, do whatever it is we have to do, and finish. No messing.”

  “Hopefully, if all goes well,” said Ronnie. “But I reckon that the last test is going to be a right bugger.”

  “I have to concur with that,” said Ethan. “Sorry Ollie, but it does appear that the challenges have been getting harder and harder. Compared to Flug’s, Stitches’ one was a doddle.”

  “Excuse me,” said the zombie from his usual place, shoulders pretty much in line with the top of his head, “but I went through a harrowing experience in that crypt, I’ll have you know. It’s not easy being funny all the time.”

  “That is something that you make abundantly clear on a daily basis. You should be proud. It’s hard to achieve that level of consistency,” said Ollie.

  “Charming. I hope your fangs get mildew.”

  The road north was indeed as straight as an arrow and, thankfully, free of roadside cafés, which was a major blessing because after all of his exertions in the Strongman competition, Flug announced that he was hungry again. Luckily, Ronnie had a hunk of bread and some Transylvanian cheese left over in a bag (For those of you unfamiliar with Transylvanian cheese, it has the colour of a heart attack victim, the texture of a slab of granite and the fat content of an American fast food restaurant filled to capacity. It’s decorated with sets of double punctures as well, which is a nice touch. It’s not pleasant stuff though, and you’d probably be better off eating that Icelandic cheese with all the maggots in it. On second thoughts, no you wouldn’t. Cheese made from the fungal jam between an ogre’s hairy toes would make much better eating than that muck. Still, it all sounds better than anything Subway could knock up).

  Flug wolfed down his snack in a couple of bites, uncaring about its taste, smell and general appearance. He actually found it to be quite tasty, but then again, anyone who regularly eats cheese made from the fungal jam between an ogre’s hairy toes isn’t going to have much of a sense of taste. In London he had even eaten at Wimpy. He threw up straight afterwards of course, but doesn’t everyone?

  Thankfully, Flug kept his food down and a couple of hours steady travelling saw them nearing their final destination.

  “Castle dead ahead,” said Ethan, pointing out a road sign. “Which is right on the nose, because there it is.”

  It was a rather imposing structure that had a passing resemblance to the Tower of London, but only to the point that the designer had possibly seen a postcard of said edifice and thought, I could do that. The main differences on first inspection were that there were more net curtains and no bovine munching guards.

  “This must be it,” said Ollie “We haven’t passed anything else for miles and there’s nothing obvious ahead that I can see.”

  “Let’s get it over with, then,” said Ronnie.

  Ethan turned into the junction and started over the rickety drawbridge. About half way across was another sign that said strictly no vehicles.

  “Looks like we’re walking,” said Ollie. “Everybody out.”

  They passed under a vast, iron portcullis which every one of them thought was going to come crashing down on their heads at any minute, and into an expansive courtyard in which were carriages, a couple of antiquated cars and some push-bikes.

  “Looks like we’re not the only ones here,” said Stitches, pointing to a man who was skipping his way towards them. He was extremely slim, to the point that you really wanted to take him out for a hearty meal, was as bald as a coot with alopecia and was dressed in Dr. Marten boots, skin tight jeans, a very flamboyant shirt and a dark purple Victorian frock coat. When he got to them he took a mouth organ from a pocket and blasted out a few random notes.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he announced with rather a lot of American style enthusiasm, which sounded a bit daft in his Home Counties accent. “My name is Brian O’Richard and I’ll be your guide. Follow me inside and keep up.”

  He jogged off in the direction that he had originally come from. “Come on,” he shouted over his shoulder at the non-moving quintet.

  “We better had,” said Ethan.

  “Great,” moaned Stitches, breaking into as much of a jog as he could muster without his hips going on strike.

  The strange fellow led them through a massive oak door, which in turn took them into a wide hall. In the centre was an enormous dining table that was all laid out in readiness for a feast of gargantuan proportions. A fire that would have given the Forestry Commission cause for concern was roaring in the voluminous grate. Logs were popping and cracking as the intense heat claimed them. Stitches stayed well away from it. He got worried enough when Ronnie stood next to him smoking. He was liable to spontaneously combust if he got within ten feet of that inferno.

  Brian stopped at the head of the table and draped his arms across the back rest of a magnificently carved wooden chair. Beads of sweat rolled from the shiny dome of his head and down his face to his pointed chin, where they coalesced and dripped onto the cloth of the seat.

  “Ollie,” he said, “it’s wonderful to have you here and nice to see that you’ve got some support. Not that they’ll be able to help you, of course.”

  Ollie took a couple of paces towards the genial host.

  “I do understand that,” he said, “but what exactly is it that I’m going to have to do?”

  “Well, first you have to choose.”

  “Choose what?” Ollie asked.

  “The sort of game you’d like to play. You can have a skill game, a physical, a mental or a mystery.”

  “Do I get any clues as to what each of those choices entails?”

  “Only the title.”

  “Can I at least confer with my colleagues before making a choice?” Ollie asked.

  “Of course,” said Brian taking out his mouth organ again. “Ta
ke your time.”

  They huddled together and went over the various options that Ollie had been presented with, and what each might require Ollie to do.

  It didn’t take too long to decide that a mental challenge was probably the best way to go. Skill and physical you could pretty much group together, and if Ollie was being honest with himself, he was pretty rubbish at anything that required a reasonable level of fitness. He got a cramp a couple of weeks back when coming up the stairs from Crumble’s lab, although that might have had something to do with being chased for twenty minutes by a rampant, genetically modified frog armed with a small sword and a croak that could crack glass.

  The mystery game sounded a bit too, well, mysterious. That seemed to be just asking for trouble, and they’d had enough of that already.

  “Mental, Brian,” Ollie announced.

  “That’s a bit rude,” said their host taken aback, “we’ve only just met. And anyway I’ve got the paperwork that says I’m…”

  “No. I mean I’ll do a mental game.”

  “Excellent choice,” shouted Brian enthusiastically, instantly forgetting the misunderstanding and running off again. “Let’s go,” he shouted.

  “Do you reckon he works at being that jolly, or it just comes naturally?” asked Ronnie.

  “Probably natural,” answered Stitches. “No one can be that happy by choice.”

  “I’m sure I recognise him,” said Ethan quietly as they followed Brian. “Didn’t he write that musical about the fat transvestite?”

  “Oh, I know the one you mean,” said Ronnie as they continued through the castle at a steady pace. “The Stocky Horror Picture Show.”

  “Oh I’ve seen that,” said Ollie. “One of the weirdest things ever. A load of wobbly, flaccid old men in dresses playing with their…”

  “We’re here,” Brian announced, coming to a sudden stop that almost caused a six body pile up that would have been a bloody and messy affair, seeing that the massive juggernaut that was Flug was bringing up the rear.

  “Ollie, if you would be so kind as to come and join me at the door please,” said Brian, indicating what looked like the entrance to a dungeon type torture chamber. “All you have to do is enter, solve the problem that you’re faced with, and collect your prize. Got it?”