The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (31 page)

‘Let
us visit the rear of the building where we might discuss matters in privacy and
you might view the wreckage and the extent of the damage done.’ Chief Inspector
Case drew deeply on his pipe and blew out tiny puffs of purple smoke.

‘Martian
hashish,’ said Septimus Grey.

The
chief inspector nodded.

As Lord
Brentford could not nod at all, he just said, ‘Yes, ‘when asked.

‘Would
you care to return to your home?’ asked the nurse, in that overloud and
over-precise manner that those of the medical professions choose to employ upon
the elderly and infirm.

Darwin
nodded his head for the noble lord.

‘Aw,’
went the nurse. ‘Your little pet, bless him.’

Darwin
bit the nurse, scaled the curtain, seated himself upon the pelmet and hurled
down invective in fluent monkey.

The
nurse howled loudly and under his bandages Lord Brentford managed a grin.

‘I’ll
summon a doctor,’ said the nurse, ‘and have you discharged at once.

There
were papers that had to be signed, medicines that had to be dispensed, much
fussing that had to be done over the moving of Lord Brentford, much unnecessary
bother, much fawning by staff who wished to curry favour with nobility. Much of
much and so much more, but finally all done.

By
four of the afternoon clock, his lordship had been carefully lowered onto many
pillows in the rear of a new electric-wheeler. Darwin had been settled down
beside him, with a box of pharmaceuticals to guard and the now-hated bedpan to
watch over. Orders were given that the driver should proceed with care to Syon
House.

The electric
motor whirred and purred and off went Darwin with his bandaged master.

‘Master time,’
said Violet Wond, ‘and a man might be master of all.’

She
and Ernest Rutherford were also being propelled by electrical energy aboard the
New Electric Railway that ran from Victoria Station to Crystal Palace. The two
sat in a first-class carriage, air-cooled and pleasing, watching the world
through the plate-glass windows, speaking of this and that.

‘A
Master of Time,’ said Ernest Rutherford, thoughtfully. ‘It does sound rather
like something from a novel by Mr Wells.’

‘Would
you not enjoy being
masterful?’
Miss Wond’s voice took on a
certain
tone.
It was a tone that Mr Rutherford found confusing. This woman’s talk was full
of innuendo, yet there was something about her which said
do not touch
—
and so forcibly, too, at times that it put a certain fear into Mr Ernest
Rutherford. But there was something about her that fascinated Mr Rutherford,
intrigued him, tantalised him. Mr Rutherford had, over the past year, been
falling utterly in love with Violet Wond.

‘What
might a man do,’ asked the smitten chemist, ‘if he was a Master of Time?’

‘He
could right wrongs!’ said Miss Wond. ‘He could travel back into the past and
put right things that had been made wrong.

‘Dear
lady.’ Mr Rutherford gazed at the woman in black, gazed towards the heavy veil
that smothered her face and hid what lay beneath from a world that would know
only fear if it was revealed. ‘If I could, sweet lady, I would,’ said Ernest
Rutherford.

‘We
shall see what we shall see,’ said Violet Wond.

‘You see what I
mean,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘A jolly fine mess it has made.’

‘A
jolly
fine mess,’ agreed Septimus Grey. ‘Whatever was this building that it tore
down with such force?’

‘Something
called a Bananary. Built by a lunatic recluse, apparently, who was in charge of
Syon House until Lord Brentford returned as if from the dead to claim what is
rightfully his.’

‘And
I will wager he was not best pleased by the Bananary.’

‘Not
best pleased at all.’ Chief Inspector Case puffed somewhat at his pipe. Red
smoke fled its bowl and turned in spirals in the air of afternoon.

‘The
wreckage of the spaceship,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It is the wreckage of a
Martian spaceship, is it not?’

‘Very
hard to tell,’ said Septimus Grey.

‘On
the contrary,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Even in this pitiable state the
contours are clearly visible. I was called here last night and arrived an hour
after the crash, when the fire-fighters were still at work and the ambulance
men were carting away Lord Brentford.’

‘It
fell upon him, then?’ asked Septimus Grey.

‘Not
as such. It crashed. He was furious as he was having a soirée in the hope of
raising money for some Wonders of the Worlds project he has in mind. He fetched
his shotgun, entered the wreck and let free both barrels at the pilot.’

‘Goodness
me,’ said Septimus Grey.

‘His
gunshots caused a bit of a ruckus in the mechanical gubbins of the spaceship
and his lordship hadn’t got far before it exploded. Nearly had his bum blown
off, apparently.’

Septimus
Grey made a pained expression. ‘You have not, as yet, explained to me precisely
what
my
involvement in this unfortunate incident might be.’

‘It
is simplicity itself,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘A spaceship has crashed
into the home of one of the Empire’s most notable members of the aristocracy.
One whose mission, with his Wonders of the Worlds project, would appear to be a
peacekeeping affair designed to bring accord amongst the planets.’

‘This
much I know,’ said Septimus Grey.

‘Indeed
you do,’ said Chief Inspector Case, ‘because I acquired a copy of the guest
list when I arrived here last night. Your name is upon it. You were present
last night when this occurred.’

‘I
never said I was not,’ said Septimus Grey.

‘But
you left swiftly enough after the crash — you had gone before I arrived.’

‘And
so too had many others. I left as I feared for the safety of my daughter.’

Chief
Inspector Case perused the guest list. ‘Your daughter is not listed here,’ he
said.

‘She
chooses to use her mother’s surname.

‘Ah,
I see.’ The chief inspector sucked some more at his pipe. ‘I am a modest
fellow, Mr Grey,’ he said. ‘I am not one for airs and graces. I doggedly follow
clues. I work upon logic.’

‘And
when all those fail you call upon the services of Mr Cameron Bell.’

‘Oh,
harsh words,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘But I note well that you are clearly
a gentleman who is “in the know”, so let us bandy no further words. Why was
this deed done, Mr Grey? Why would you do such a thing?’

‘Me?’
said
Mr Septimus Grey. ‘You are accusing
me?’

‘As I
told you, Mr Grey, I work in a dogged fashion. A spaceship crashes into a
country house. Not an everyday occurrence, you will agree. But the thing about
spaceships is that there are only a limited number of them, and each is
registered. This craft here…’ Chief Inspector Case stepped carefully over
banana skins and wreckage, took up something that he had discovered the
previous night and carried it over to Septimus Grey, who stood looking very
grumpy.

‘And
what is
that?’
asked the Governor of the Martian Territories.

‘This,’
said Chief Inspector Case, ‘is the nameplate of the crashed spaceship, dented
but quite readable. Its name, as you see—’ he displayed this nameplate ‘—is the
Marie Lloyd,
a spaceship, Mr Septimus Grey, that is registered to
you.

30

pon
the cobbled landing strip of the Royal London Spaceport stood a single
spaceship. It was a battered old Martian hulk and its name was the
Marie
Lloyd.
It was, of course, the same
Marie Lloyd
that had crashed into
the Bananary at Syon House on the previous evening. Although
that Marie
Lloyd
had been converted into a time—ship and launched back into the past
from a point five months in the future.

Proving
how simple things can be when they are explained with precision.

The
spaceport shuttle cart moved over the cobbled strip towards this spaceship.
Aboard were Mr Ernest Rutherford and Miss Violet Wond.

‘And
you actually
own
this spaceship?’ asked the lovesick chemist. ‘You are
the mistress of it, as it were?’

‘It
was given to me as a present,’ said Miss Wond, ‘by an acquaintance, in return
for services rendered.’

‘Oh,’
said Mr Rutherford.

‘An
acquaintance had wronged the gentleman who owned the spaceship. I set matters
right.’

‘Ah,’
said Mr Rutherford. But he did not understand. Miss Wond did have rather
definite ideas regarding
right
and
wrong.
The chemist, who
dreamed of her at night, felt that he truly had no wish
ever
to get upon
her
wrong
side.

‘Might
I ask,’ said Mr Rutherford, almost touching a silk-gloved hand, ‘regarding the
special membrane and body-coverings that I formulated for you at your
instruction — all is satisfactory there, I trust?’

‘The
membrane functions perfectly,’ replied Miss Wond. ‘It negates gravity and
allows the wearer to travel through the sky.’

Mr
Rutherford clapped his hands together. ‘How very exciting that must be,’ he
said.

‘I
imagine so,’ said Miss Wond.

‘And
the body-covering that makes one impervious to bullets?’

‘Perfect,’
said the lady all in black.

‘Splendid.
Splendid. Splendid.’ The chemist patted the arm of Miss Wond. ‘Oh, do please
pardon me,’ he said. ‘I got rather carried away there.’

‘It
is of no consequence.

The
shuttle cart drew up before the
Marie Lloyd
and Mr Rutherford stepped
from it, extending a hand towards Miss Wond in the hope of helping her down.

The
lady in black, however, leapt nimbly from the shuttle and dropped onto the
cobbles several yards beyond.

‘Most
athletic,’ said the chemist approvingly and, after dispensing coin to the
shuttle’s driver, he followed the lady in black.

Things were
suddenly looking black for Mr Septimus Grey. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he
asked, for he was not without fight.

‘Questions
will
be asked,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Awkward questions. Most
likely in the House of Commons and also the House of Lords. “How,” these
questions might be put, “did a spaceship owned by Mr Septimus Grey, a man who
was forced from his exalted position on Mars, come to crash into the house of a
member of the aristocracy? Is this some act of revolutionary anarchism,
perhaps?”‘

‘Stop
right there!’ said Septimus Grey. ‘This does not make any sense at all.’

‘Oh,
it will once I have tidied up all the loose ends,’ said Chief Inspector Case.
‘You would be surprised how good we hard-working and sadly underpaid detectives
at Scotland Yard are at tying up loose ends into nice tidy bundles. Where even
the most unlikely pieces of jigsaw can be made to fit.’

‘Rather
too many metaphors there for my liking,’ said Septimus Grey, ‘but things are
indeed becoming crystal clear. How much do you want for that nameplate there,
Chief Inspector?’

‘This
nameplate?’
asked the pride of Scotland Yard. ‘The very same. One hundred, two hundred
pounds?’ ‘Did you say two hundred
guineas?’
asked the chief inspector.

‘Guineas,
then,’ said Mr Septimus Grey.

‘A
little louder please,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘I punctured an eardrum
swimming in the Thames as a boy.’

‘I
will pay you two hundred guineas for that nameplate,’ shouted Septimus Grey.

‘Wonderful
stuff,’ cried the chief inspector. And, ‘You are nicked, chummy,’ he also said.
And, ‘Slap the handcuffs on him, lads,’ as well.

Septimus
Grey gaped in horror as several young constables, with truncheons held aloft,
leapt from hiding and placed him very firmly under arrest.