The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (12 page)

The
organ-grinders made and unmade fists; they needed someone to punch.

Exactly
which one of the attendant monkeys hurled the first piece of dung, history does
not record. History does record, however, that it struck home upon a certain Mr
Danny Bucket, a gentleman most cruelly robbed of at least four awards in his
own, most humble opinion.

Mr
Bucket was not a man who, under any circumstances, would have taken kindly to a
besplattering of monkey dung. And in his present fractious state of mind he
struck out, as folk will sometimes do in such circumstances, randomly, but, him
being a large man, with considerable force.

He
brought down, by chance, a chappie named Chub, one of four brothers. All of
whom were organ-grinders and all of whom were present in the room.

The
brass knuckle-duster and the lead-weighted cosh were this season’s concealed
weapons of choice amongst the hoi polloi. And before one could say, ‘Peace be
unto thee, brother grinder,’ a multiplicity of such martial artefacts were
brought forth from their concealments and put to service in the art of war.

A war
that grew and grew to almost biblical proportions.

For
thusly then did grinder smite at grinder and loudly rang the cries of battle
therewith. Great, too, were the weepings and wailings, and indeed the gnashings
of teeth as Man’s hirsute and humble cousin smote alike his own kind and the
Sons of Adam,
[10]
too.

Mr
Cameron Bell ducked smartly aside as a champagne cooler passed him by at close
quarters. Darwin the monkey was up on the table, trousers down and eager for a
tussle.

Mr
Bell eyed the table occupied by Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm and her associates:
two East End bare-knuckle fighters, an unconvicted poisoner and a Frenchman of
evil intent. Miss Dharkstorrm was loading her awards into an oversized reticule
and appeared about to make an opportune departure. One of the bare-knuckle
fighters knocked down a fellow named Chub. The fellow’s brothers took to a
bloody revenge.

Tables
were now being overturned and chairs brought into play as weaponry. The
Frenchman of evil intent was torturing a waiter. Then someone pulled out a
pistol and fired it into the ceiling.

The
purpose of this reckless act might not have been reckless at all; it might in
fact have been one of good intention, an attempt to halt the altercation and to
restore peace, order and good sense. It did not, however, achieve these noble
ends. Rather it focused the attention of a passing bobby, who drew forth his
truncheon and took to blowing his whistle.

The
sound of a policeman’s whistle was not one that signalled joy amongst the
members of the club next door to Leno’s. This was not a gentlemen’s club per
se, although it was a club frequented by gentlemen. The name of the club was
Molly’s and it catered to those who favoured wearing the apparel of the
opposite sex and engaging in acts which, even in this most enlightened of
times, were not strictly legal.

The
police whistle, blowing as it did in the key of ‘la’, was disharmoniously
accompanied by the sound of the large casement window of Leno’s bursting
asunder in the key of E-flat minor to admit the passage of several large organ-grinders
locked in titanic conflict. As glass and timber and grinders too all toppled
into Leicester Square, a new dimension of excitement was added to the turmoil
within. A hurled champagne bottle struck a gas mantle, shattering same and
causing a minor but significant explosion that set fire to the curtains with
most dramatic effect.

A
burly grinder tore down these curtains and took to stamping out the flames. He
soon, however, found himself trampled beneath many feet as, fighting as they
fled, the evening-suited combatants sought a hasty exit through the yawning maw
that had once been a casement window.

The
defenestrated grinders found themselves met all but head-on by the fleeing
habitués of Molly’s. Monkeys bounded onto the pavement, frightening the horses
of a passing growler. The policeman, sufficiently distanced so as to avoid the
danger of any personal injury, put new life into his whistle-blowing. Horses
reared. The growler overturned. Within the dining room of Leno’s flames began
to lick up the walls.

Mr
Bell hauled Darwin from the table. The single table, so it appeared, that had
not been overturned.

‘Time
to go,’ he told the monkey. ‘Miss Lavinia and her henchmen are taking their
leave by the rear entrance. We should do likewise, I feel.’

As
Darwin found flames fearful, he clung to Cameron Bell as the great detective
threaded his way between broken furniture and battered bodies.

Miss
Lavinia Dharkstorrm left the building.

Before
Leno’s, in the square named for Earl Leicester, mayhem abounded and misrule was
the order of the evening. The lady-men of Molly’s, believing the
evening-suited grinders to be some company of plain-clothed policemen from the
newly formed Vice Division, set about the grinders with a will. A party of
Jovian sightseers found themselves drawn into the mèlée and, knowing from their
guidebooks that London had a colourful history of riots and social unrest,
joyfully took to the staving-in of a nearby hat shop and the looting of its
contents.

Behind
Leno’s, in a back passage named for no particular historical personage and
known only as Doggers’ Alley, stood two horse-drawn conveyances. The first was
an elegant four-wheeled landau, which seated six. Aboard this, in a fine
scarlet uniform with matching high top hat, sat a straight-backed driver,
facing to the front. The second was a hansom cab adorned by an ill-kempt
sleeper who smelled most strongly of gin.

From
the rear entrance of Leno’s issued Miss Dharkstorrm, in the company of one
bare-knuckle fighter, an unconvicted poisoner and the winner of the Liveliest
Monkey Award, the chestnut-haired and hazel-eyed Pandora.

‘Into
our landau,’ cried the High Priestess. ‘We will away from this lunacy, as of
now.’

Once
all were aboard, she ordered the driver to put his whip to the horses.

‘At
your service, ma’am,’ came the reply.

The
landau set to a goodly speed, its wheels raising sparks on the cobbles of Doggers’
Alley.

Now
out from the rear entrance came Cameron Bell. Darwin was still clinging to the
great detective, who threw himself aboard the hansom and ordered the driver to,
‘Follow that cab as I have hired you to do.’

‘Pardon?’
said the driver, stirring somewhat from his drunken stupor.

‘Follow
the landau, man! Follow the landau!’

‘Froggo
the lighterman? Who in the Devil is he?’

‘Oh
my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Hold on tightly, Darwin, for I am
going to drive this cab.’

It
was but the work of a moment or two: the climbing down from the passenger
compartment; the climbing up to the driver’s perch; the forcible tossing of the
drunken driver from his perch; the whipping-up of the single horse; and the
setting off apace.

Doggers’
Alley debouched into Leicester Square at a sufficient distance from Leno’s that
a passenger in a landau or a hansom, travelling from there to a further part of
the square, might do so in comfort, enjoying the sight of what was now a
full-blown riot without having their enjoyment in any way curtailed by actually
becoming involved in it.

Not
that rioters do not enjoy themselves. On the contrary, there is nothing quite
like a good riot to set the pulse racing and the heart a-beating like a big
bass drum.

Darwin
took no small delight in viewing the antics of his fellow simians who, now
perched high atop lamp posts, were raining faeces onto the crowds below. Two
Black Marias entered Leicester Square. Flames were rising highly now from
Leno’s.

The
landau was all but out of sight. But Mr Bell, aware of the general direction in
which it was heading, stirred up the horse and pressed it on at a trot.

The
little hatch above the passenger compartment popped open and Darwin stuck his
head out.

‘Well,
I must say I enjoyed that,’ said the ape.

‘I
thought you might,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You are always going on about Man’s
inhumanity to Monkey. I felt it might be instructive for you to witness an
example of Man’s inhumanity to Woman.’

Darwin
cocked his head on one side. ‘You knew about the results,’ said he.

‘I
knew about the results.’

‘I
suspect,’ said Darwin, ‘that if she really
is
a witch then the results
were the result, as it were, of certain witcheries.’

Cameron
Bell shook his head. ‘Oh, bother,’ he said. ‘I left without my hat. But no, her
witcheries, if such she possesses, played no part in the results.’

‘Then
she genuinely won the awards?’

‘Not
as such,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I switched the envelopes, you see, when I left
the table before the dinner began.’

‘Oh,
bravo,’ said Darwin. ‘Although—’

‘Although
what?’
asked Cameron Bell, flicking the whip at the horse, which had
slackened from a brisk trot to a stroll. ‘Although
what,
exactly?’

‘I
counted at least two dead on the way out,’ said Darwin. ‘I expect the body count
will have risen significantly by the morning.’

‘Happily,’
said Cameron Bell, ‘if that word can be applied in such a context, the two
fatalities were a bare—knuckle fighter and a Frenchman of evil intent — two of
Miss Dharkstorrm‘s henchmen. I had been hoping something like that might
occur, to lessen the danger to us when we capture her.’ Cameron Bell made a
thoughtful face. ‘However,’ said he, ‘I do not see how I could possibly be
blamed for the altercation or the fatalities.’

Two
fire engines, their bells ringing loudly, sped towards and past them.

‘
You
substituted the results to allow a woman to win,’ said Darwin. ‘It is all
your fault and no other’s.’

‘I
recall clearly,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘that the fighting began when Mr Danny
Bucket was struck by a hand-flung helping of dung.’

Darwin
quietened somewhat. Then, ‘Hold hard a minute,’ he said.

‘What
now?’ asked Cameron Bell.

‘The
original and genuine results,’ said Darwin.
‘I
might have won an award.’

‘You
didn’t,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I checked. Although—’

‘Although
what?’

‘I
was
nominated in the Best-Dressed category.’

‘As
“Most Badly Disguised Detective”?’ asked the monkey.

‘I
must concentrate on my driving,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Close the little hatch and
sit yourself down.’

They
had now reached the Victoria Embankment and were passing Cleopatra’s Needle.
The Moon shone from a cloudless sky and tinged the ancient obelisk with silver.
Cameron Bell sighed and took a deep breath. Ahead now he could see the landau,
slowed to an even pace and approaching Waterloo Bridge. On board was a witch,
a High Priestess of the Great White Lodge. Possessed of magic? Possibly.
Cameron Bell had encountered magic before, real magic, and its power had
chilled him to the bone. He was a detective. A great detective. Greatest of
the age, many claimed, and he was amongst this many. Show him an article of
clothing and from it he could construct a description of the wearer that was
little less than uncanny. Give him an item — a watch, a snuffbox, whatever —
and he could divine from its perusal more inferences than any man alive. But
match him against the powers of magic and he was oft-times lost.

He
could have traced any normal criminal to their hideaway with comparative ease,
but Miss Dharkstorrm, it so appeared, was no ordinary criminal. Again and again
she had outfoxed him. He was certain she was responsible for at least three
major crimes — the thefts of three valuable antique reliquaries, one of which
he was presently engaged to retrieve. Exactly what a witch would want with a
reliquary was beyond Mr Bell’s powers to deduce. But he knew that she had them
and he knew,
just knew,
that he would take them from her. For tonight he
would employ the wonders of modern-day science to uncover the secret lair of
the elusive Miss Dharkstorrm. Tonight he would succeed. Tonight he would
triumph.

He
would, he truly would.

A
sudden coldness chilled the air and worried at his naked scalp. ‘I wish I had
not forgotten my hat,’ said he.

Ahead the landau
carried on along the Embankment past Waterloo Bridge, for although unknown to
Cameron Bell, a true witch cannot pass over running water.

Miss
Lavinia Dharkstorrm lolled upon perfumed pillows, Pandora snoring gently on her
lap. She raised a star-shaped mirror in a delicate hand, gazed into it and
found pleasure in the viewing.

‘Tonight
you will not lose me, Mr Bell,’ said she, ‘for tonight I have a score to settle
with you.

To
the right the moonlight twinkled on the Thames. To the left a red glow showed
above the rooftops as flames curled up into the sky from Leicester Square …