Retromancer

by Robert Rankin

  ‘THE HERMIT?’ I said.

  And Hugo Rune nodded.

  ‘It’s time for tea,’ he said.

  14

  JUSTICE

  I did not immediately take to Lord Jason Lark-Rising.

  He appeared upon Mr Rune’s doorstop on a Monday morning in early March, while Mr Rune and I were recovering from the after-effects of a particularly heroic five-course breakfast. Waistcoat buttons had been undone, and bellies gently massaged.

  ‘Get the front door, Rizla,’ cried Hugo Rune, ‘before that young jackanapes has the knocker off it.’

  As Lord Jason had yet to reach out for the knocker, I hastened, though sluggishly and unenthusiastically, to oblige the great man. Loud knockings would not suit either of us at that particular time.

  Time, always time, and upon this occasion my timing was poor. I swung open the door as Lord Jason groped towards our knocker. The young aristocrat was clearly distracted, for he took hold of my nose and attempted to knock with it.

  Which greatly amused a lady in a straw hat who was passing by at the time, but failed to bring joy unto me.

  ‘Dashed sorry, old bogie,’ said his Lordship, releasing his grip and examining his fingers with distaste. ‘Wish to see Rune, go fish him out for me, do.’

  I eyed up this fellow and I did this with similar distaste. I had seen him around and about in the borough, whilst I was strolling in the company of Mr Rune, who still would not let me go out on my own. And the Perfect Master had pointed him out and told me all about him.

  He was born to heroic stock; the bloodline of the Lark-Risings could be traced back to the time of Richard the Lionheart, when one of Lord Jason’s ancestors had saved that monarch’s life by decapitating a Mussulman who was taking a swing at him with a great big pointy sword. And so it had gone on since then, with the Lark-Risings performing noble deeds for King and country down through the ages and right up to the present day.

  And in this present day that I now inhabited, there were still many members of the aristocracy to be found living upon Brentford’s historic Butts Estate. It was later, during the October mini-uprising of nineteen fifty-one that those who did not flee found themselves up against the wall. Brentford’s brief revolution and instigation as an independent communist republic had not proved popular with the locals, who soon ousted the ruling junta.

  These in turn fled, including, my Aunt Edna told me, a certain local baker who had risen to prominence in the mini-revolution and who had it away upon his heels to Cuba. I think my Aunt Edna had quite a ‘thing’ for that baker Mr Castro.

  But that was for the future and this was for the now. Before me, on Mr Rune’s doorstep, stood this young aristocrat. Surely hardly older than myself, but with that confident bearing and authoritative manner that marked him out from a common-as-mucker such as myself. Naturally I was jealous - well, of course I was. He was very good-looking and very well dressed and he came from a very good family.

  ‘Mr Rune is away on important business,’ I said, closing the door upon Lord Jason Lark-Rising.

  ‘Oh no I’m not, young Rizla,’ boomed a voice from within. ‘Allow His Lordship entry at the hurry-up.’

  ‘Apparently he just returned,’ I said and allowed his Lordship entry.

  There was something very vibrant about this young man. He veritably bounced past me into the hall and pranced into Mr Rune’s study.

  I followed him in and a certain joy was brought to me as I noticed the immediate change in his demeanour when he found himself in the presence of Hugo Rune.

  A certain humility manifested itself.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ said Lord Jason. Sir! I liked that. ‘So sorry to trouble you, but something has come to my notice that I felt I must bring to yours. So to speak, suchlike and so on.’

  ‘Please seat yourself,’ said Hugo Rune. And directed Lord Jason to my chair. ‘Rizla, fetch coffee, if you will.’

  ‘And if I will not?’ I asked, huffily.

  ‘You will, Rizla, you will.’

  And so I did. And I returned with it, in the bestest pot, with the bestest cups and saucers on the very bestest tray. And I did so in time to hear Mr Rune cry, ‘Now here’s a thing and no mistake. The sheer unbridled gall.’

  So I set down the coffee tray upon an occasional table which no doubt had been yearning for an occasion such as this to arrive and I asked Mr Rune what the trouble might be.

  ‘This letter,’ said Himself. ‘Delivered anonymously to the house of Lord Jason. Here, read it aloud, if you will.’

  ‘Oh I say,’ His Lordship protested. ‘It’s not for common folk like him.’

  But Hugo Rune stilled this protest with a gesture. ‘My amanuensis Rizla can be trusted,’ he said. ‘He is my valued companion. Now, Rizla, please read it aloud. And also let us have your observations.’ And he handed an envelope to me and I took this, examined it and said the following things.

  ‘A cheap envelope,’ I said, ‘which could have been purchased anywhere; no stamp, so as you say, hand-delivered. Opened with a paperknife.’

  And Hugo Rune said, ‘Bravo.’

  I drew the letter from the envelope and opened it up with care. ‘Folded seven times,’ I said. ‘Rather unusual and unnecessary. But typed—’ and I examined the typing carefully ‘—upon a somewhat superannuated typewriter, which has given several distinctive features to the print. And now the contents I shall read aloud.’

  And so I did.

  Dear Scum

  I read. And, ‘Ahem,’ went I.

  Dear Scum,

  Know that the war is lost for you and your kind, you who have squeezed this country until the very pips bled. A Dawn of Gold shines from out of the darkness. Your end is nigh and know this too. We will take back what is ours, starting with your National Treasure. Before the Dawn comes. This shall be the first sign of our power.

  ‘It is not signed,’ I said. And I turned the letter over. ‘That is all it says.’

  ‘And what do you make of it, Rizla?’

  ‘Poison pen letter,’ I said. ‘From some local nutter who has it in for the swells.’

  ‘There is a great deal more to it than that, methinks. Pour coffee, if you will.’

  I returned the letter and envelope to Mr Rune and poured coffee. Lord Jason helped himself to three spoonfuls of ersatz sugar and a Bourbon biscuit that I had set aside for myself. I sat down at the now-occasioned table and awaited further developments. These were not too long in coming.

  ‘National Treasure,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Now what would you take that to be, Rizla?’

  ‘A plot to kidnap George Formby?’ I suggested.

  ‘Try once more.’

  ‘Not Vera Lynn?’ And here I shrugged. ‘I have never liked her much anyway.’

  ‘No, Rizla,’ said Himself. ‘It is referring to the National Treasure. It is referring to the Crown jewels.’

  ‘Oooh,’ I went and I whistled as I went. ‘A plot to steal the Crown jewels, how exciting.’ But there was a certain tone to my voice. One that more than merely hinted that I was not convinced.

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am wrong?’

  ‘Why, perish the thought,’ said I. ‘But come on now, Mr Rune, that is a letter from a loony.’

  ‘Would you care to wager on this matter?’

  ‘Well . . .’ But I knew far better than to bet against Hugo Rune. ‘I will keep my money,’ I said. ‘Or would if I had any. Do you not think it is time that you started paying me some wages?’

  But Hugo Rune was having none of that. ‘ “Before the Dawn comes,” ’ he quoted. ‘Which I must take to mean that the Crown jewels are to be stolen tonight.’

  But I shook my head at this. ‘Oh, please,’ I said. ‘The Crown jewels? This will be only our second case, if it proves to be a case at all. The theft of the Crown jewels is a Crime-of-the-Century sort of occurrence. Surely that would merit it being at least our eighth or ninth case?’

  And, pleased with the persuasiveness of this argument, I
took to supping my coffee.

  ‘I shall take the case,’ said Hugo Rune to Lord Jason. ‘Is your Uncle Rottweiler still an equerry at Kensington Palace?’

  Lord Jason nodded.

  ‘I already have an OBE and a Victoria Cross,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘When I save the National Treasure, I think perhaps a very special one-off knighthood would be in order, in honour of that particular day. What say you?’

  And Lord Jason nodded once more.

  ‘Ludicrous,’ I said. And I threw up my hands, nearly taking my left eye out with my coffee spoon.

  ‘Well, ludicrous or not, it takes my fancy. Pluck a card from the deck and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘But my breakfast has not gone down yet,’ I complained.

  ‘A card from the deck, young Rizla.’

  And I plucked a card from the deck.

  15

  The card I plucked was JUSTICE. But I confess that I did not simply pluck it at random. I plucked it out of sheer wilfulness, as I could see absolutely no connection whatsoever between JUSTICE and the Crown jewels. So, in my own small way, I was simply trying to be unhelpful.

  ‘Can I come along with you?’ asked Lord Jason Lark-Rising, the bounce once more returning to him. ‘I have all manner of skills that you might wish to put to good use.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Rizla and I work as a team. Although I appreciate your offer, I must decline it.’

  And I appreciated that. Yes, we were indeed a team and it was a real joy to hear Mr Rune confirming this.

  ‘I could drive you in the Rolls,’ said the young aristo.

  And so we two became three and I got a right old sulk on.

  ‘Perk up, Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune as he lolled in the back seat, window half-down, languidly waving to folk we passed by.

  ‘I am perked up,’ I said, but I was not.

  Lord Jason lolled beside Hugo Rune.

  I was doing the driving.

  All right, I was driving a Rolls-Royce 1938 Phantom Fandango XR6, which is not something that you do every day and is really rather quite special. But it should not have been me doing the driving. I should have been sharing in the back-seat lolls. And Mr Rune made me wear a chauffeur’s cap!

  ‘I would have been quite happy to drive,’ I heard Lord Jason say to Hugo Rune. ‘I’m really becoming quite good at it. I hardly run over anyone much any more. Anyone important anyway.’

  ‘Rizla needs the practice,’ Mr Rune replied. ‘One day soon he might be driving a tank, so he needs to get his bearings.’

  Driving a tank? I shook my head. But later I did not drive a tank!

  ‘I see you have a cocktail cabinet,’ Hugo Rune observed. ‘What say you knock us up a couple of Dive Bombers?’4

  ‘Pip pip,’ went His Lordship. And I drove on in silence.

  We certainly got some looks from the London populace. But not many of these encompassed admiration or respect. These wartime years saw the class system starting to erode. Those who had once bowed their heads and tugged at their forelocks were straightening up. Change as well as smoke was in the air.

  I called back over my shoulder to my passengers, who now were growing somewhat rowdy in the back. ‘Will you please stop that raucous singing?’ I called. ‘And tell me, Mr Rune - should I be driving to the Tower of London, or are the Crown jewels kept somewhere safer from the bombs? The vaults of the Bank of England, or suchlike?’

  ‘They are still in the Tower,’ came the somewhat drunken reply. ‘As the Royal Family remain at Buck House, so the Crown jewels remain at the Tower. It’s a PR exercise really, something to lift the spirits of the masses. “We’re all in this together” and all that kind of guff.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ I was heard to say. But no one heard it but me.

  It is a fair old journey from Brentford to the Tower of London and by the time I had reached my destination my passengers were in a state of advanced inebriation, giggling like girlies and falling about in laughter at the slightest no-good-reason-whatsoever. It was quite disgraceful behaviour and I was rightly appalled.

  ‘We are here,’ I said, as I drew the Roller to a very sudden halt outside the Tower, which dispatched Hugo Rune and Lord Jason into a giggling heap on the floor. ‘We have arrived.’ No yellow lines in the nineteen forties. You could park where you wished. ‘What exactly are we going to do now?’ I asked. ‘Neither of you is in any fit state to conduct any kind of investigation.’

  ‘You go by yourself, Rizla,’ called Hugo Rune, attempting without success to light a cigar whilst still on the floor and setting fire to Lord Jason instead. ‘Investigate away and return later to report your findings.’

  ‘While you get your head down for a little nap, I suppose.’

  ‘What a fine idea. Go on, now.’

  And so I left the Rolls-Royce and its drunken cargo and traipsed over the drawbridge and into the Tower’s environs. I had never been to the Tower of London before and I was quite impressed by it. Impressed but not well favoured. As I had not taken to Lord Jason, I did not take to the Tower of London. It was leaden. Heavy. Grim. Foreboding. Its atmosphere weighed upon me. Many evil deeds had been committed there and you could almost feel them.

  I did a little shiver and plodded into the central courtyard. To find my passage blocked by a beefeater.

  And a great big beefeater too, he was. And one with a certain attitude.

  He wore the traditional duds of the beefeater. Those of a meaty persuasion. The mutton-chop sideburns, the leg-of-lamb shoulder epaulettes, the ham-hock trouserettes, with their distinctive T-bone stripes. The porterhouse shoes and pig-knuckle anklets. Jugged-hare shirt and club-sandwich tie.

  And not everyone can pull off a look like that. He regarded me as if I were a stain on his pork-sword cravat and asked just what I wanted.

  ‘I have come to see the Crown jewels,’ I replied, bringing my smile into play.

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ said he. Ignoring my smile and offering me a glare.

  ‘But surely the treasure house is open to the public.’

  ‘Not today it’s not.’

  And I asked why this was.

  And received in reply words to the effect that I should take myself away to a place far distant and engage in sexual intercourse.

  ‘I do not think you quite understand,’ I said. And I stood my ground. ‘I have reason to believe that an attempt will be made today to steal the Crown jewels. I have been sent to reconnoitre and report back to my superior.’

  And would not you know it, or would not you not, the beefeater then told me that I was not a male person, as I had been given to believe throughout my life, but rather, indeed, the personification of female genitalia.

  And this I found offensive.

  ‘Your social skills are somewhat lacking, my fine fellow,’ I said to him. ‘I demand to speak at once to your supervisor.’

  Now this demand I knew usually puts the fear of God into any truculent minion of the service industry. And I folded my arms to show that I meant business. And would not be budged until I had found satisfaction.

  And would not you know it, or would not you not, he now bawled that I was to ‘get out and ******* well stay out’, and he dragged me from the courtyard and he flung me out on my ear. And I bounced across the drawbridge and came to rest in a kind of twisted mess upon hard gravel, which really brought on a serious sulk.

  I lurched to my feet and dusted down my tweeds. And pondered over just what I should do next. Return to the Rolls and bewail my lot to the probably-now-snoozing Hugo Rune? No, I would have none of that. I was not going to stand for being treated so shabbily. I would speak to that fellow’s supervisor. And I would—

  And then I was all but run over by a horse-drawn brewer’s dray. ‘Out of the way!’ cried its driver, as big-hooved horses marched by.

  They were magnificent beasts and exuded the smell of ‘horse’ to a degree that reached beyond ‘pungent’ into nasal realms that were best left unexplored.

&n
bsp; I jumped back and covered my nose as the brewer’s dray rattled by.

  They clearly drank a lot of beer at the Tower of London. One of those traditions or old charters or somethings that you read about, I supposed. Like boiling sparrows as a palliative against bicycle saddle sores only when the moon is in its final quarter and there are more blue tulips in the park than you can reasonably shake a stick at. Or was I thinking of something else entirely? Or had I perhaps suffered concussion and was not thinking clearly at all?

  The dray rolled into the Tower of London.

  And I, having surreptitiously shinnied on the back, rolled with it.

  I covered myself up with horses’ nosebags and maintained the now legendary low profile. If I could sneak down from the dray and sneak past the foul-mouthed eater of beef then I might be able to sneak into the treasure house and see whether the Crown jewels were still secure or whether someone had sneaked them away.

  And then something happened that was so utterly wonderful that I could scarce believe it to be true. It was something that schoolboys of my generation, when I was a schoolboy and it was my generation, dreamed above all other things would happen to them. It was a Boy’s Own Adventure thing. An Enid Blyton moment.

  The driver brought the dray to a halt in the courtyard. He climbed down from his high seat and spoke in whispered words to the surly beefeater. And he spoke in the fashion that made my dreams come true.

  As I heard: ‘Mumble mumble mumble secret plan. Mumble mumble steal the Crown jewels. Mumble international conspiracy. Mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble A Dawn of Gold shines from the darkness. Mumble mumble mumble.’

  ‘Well, that explains everything,’ I said to myself, but quietly. ‘I will follow these villains and see what is indeed what.’ And I peeped out from my hideaway beneath the nosebags and watched as the drayman and the beefeater sidled off across the courtyard and entered a great stone tower.