The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (48 page)

Mr
George drew from his black leather case a brass Babbage, one of those ingenious
little gadgets useful for adding up and taking away and multiplying and so
forth.

He
tapped tiny buttons and said, ‘Nine pounds, four and seven pence an ounce.

‘Must
be a ton here, at least,’ said his lordship. ‘That should more than cover all
the costs of the Grand Exposition’s halls, I am thinking. What say you to
this?’

‘I
say,’ said Mr Gilbert, ‘that these items must be assayed, to see if they are in
fact
real
gold.’

‘Please
be my guest,’ said his lordship. ‘I’ll just sit here and read the morning’s
paper, if you don’t mind.’

Mr
Gilbert brought out a brass contrivance of his own, this one the invention of
Mr Rutherford. He gaped at the great golden pile, then selected an item at
random.

‘I
have never seen a solid-gold bedpan before,’ said he.

Behind
his newspaper Lord Brentford grinned like a wolf.

Cameron Bell had
long since ceased to grin. He had been grinning when he left Roedean, a school
group photograph rolled up in his pocket. He had been grinning as he strode
down the long drive and was still grinning faintly half a mile up the road
where he still had failed to find himself a cab.

By
the time he reached Brighton Station, he had a fine sweat on and had worn a
hole in his left shoe.

He
was still grinning inwardly, though.

The
journey back to London was enlivened by champagne. At Victoria, the great
detective took a hansom cab.

And
once more in the garret that he presently called home, he took off his gloves
and took off his hat and took off his coat as well.

And
applied himself to the
Greater London Telephone Directory.

Waxlow
he knew to be the Chelsea district, but it would be a painstaking trawl to find
the address that went with the number.

When
he did find it he almost kicked himself.

THE PALACE OF MAGIC

13 EATON PLACE

CHELSEA

‘Where
else!’ said Cameron Bell to himself ‘Where else would a witch hide herself away
but London’s most notorious Temple of the Black Arts?’

And
indeed the Palace of Magic was just that. It had been a Masonic temple and
later a meeting place for the Hermetic Order of the Golden Sprout and was now,
to Mr Bell’s certain knowledge, under the control of the infamous black
magician Mr Aleister Crowley.

Mr
Bell knew Aleister Crowley of old. They had been students together at Oxford
and had experienced an on-off relationship ever since. Mr Bell recalled that
the last time he had seen Mr Crowley, he had been compelled to shoot the black
magician in the foot.

‘I
hope there will be no hard feelings,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Now I must send a telegram
and attend to one or two other matters of importance, then supper and the music
hall, I think.’

‘I would offer
you supper,’ said Lord Brentford, ‘but I do not wish to interfere with your
work. How is all that assaying coming along?’

Mr
Gilbert, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was sweating rather freely. ‘I am
almost done,’ said he.

‘And
all of the purest gold?’ Lord Brentford asked.

‘The
purest gold that I have ever seen.’ Mr Gilbert huffed and puffed. ‘What puzzles
me,’ he said between these huffs and puffs, ‘is why your forebears would choose
to have had such apparently random and, in all honesty,
inartistic
items
fashioned from gold. This small pair of trousers here, for instance, with the
snood affair on the back—’

‘Eccentric
fellows, the British aristocracy,’ said Lord Brentford, and he picked up an
item of solid gold and feigned a deep, profound perusal. ‘A solid-gold banana,’
he said.

‘I’ve
counted more than one hundred of them,’ said Mr Gilbert, ‘worth five hundred
pounds apiece.’

‘There’s
no accounting for taste, I suppose. Lord Brentford was struggling against
hilarity. ‘Personally I wouldn’t give the things houseroom, would you?’

At a little
after seven of the evening clock, a telegram was delivered to a house in
Pimlico, addressed to a certain Violet Wond. The veiled lady took it and
hurried to her room.

Miss
Violet Wond flung the telegram onto her bed.

Knelt
down and drew from beneath this bed a leather-bound portmanteau.

She
lifted the lid to display the exotic attire of Lady Raygun: the boots, the
brass corset, the leather-sectioned skirt. She drew from silken coverings a
shining silver hand weapon with the words
The Lady
inlaid in ivory upon
its stock.

‘I
have saved this gun to use upon you, my sister,’ said Violet Dharkstorrm. And
viewing once more the telegram added —‘Lady Raygun only works alone.’

46

eon
tubings lit the Electric Alhambra, the finest music hall in all the land. Mr
Bell had booked the royal box and was pleased when he reached it to find that
the champagne he had also ordered was awaiting him in an electrically cooled
buckette
glacé.

Mr
Bell looked very smart indeed in his evening suit, with white shirt, white tie,
white waistcoat and white socks.

He
settled into a plush velvet chair and waited.

Hustling,
bustling, laughing, joking, the crowds below filled up the auditorium. Sammy
‘the Screw-Scriver ‘Scrivener was topping the bill tonight — always a big draw
and a crowd-pleaser. ‘A swagger, a stagger and a saucy song about a
screwdriver’ — how could it get better than that?

Mr
Bell perused his pocket watch, uncorked the champagne, poured two glasses.
Waited a little longer.

Any
minute now.

The
door to the royal box swung open.

Aleister
Crowley entered.

The
self-styled Beast of the Apocalypse beheld the detective.

The
detective beheld the Beast.

‘Well,
well, well,’ said Aleister Crowley. ‘I really should have guessed.’

‘Guessed?’
asked Cameron Bell, a-feigning ignorance. ‘A street urchin knocks upon my door
whilst I am conducting a magical experiment with two East End slosh-pots and
presents me with this ticket.’ The Beast flourished same. ‘A ticket for the
royal box at the Electric Alhambra, where I would meet, the urchin informed me
in a confidential manner, “with a lady of great beauty and high social
standing”.’

‘Did
the trick, though, didn’t it?’ said Cameron Bell, gesturing towards both chair
and champagne. ‘I did not feel that you would have attended had you known that
I
sent you the ticket.’

Aleister
Crowley flung himself into the vacant chair and took the champagne that was
offered to him.

‘I
should not be speaking with you,’ he said. ‘The last time we met you shot me in
the foot.’

‘You
stole from me,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Be grateful that I did not shoot you in a
more personal place.’

Aleister
Crowley crossed his legs. ‘Quite so,’ he said as he sipped champagne.

‘Sammy
“the Screw-Scriver” Scrivener is topping the bill,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘I do
not believe that you tricked me here to listen to a man singing a suggestive
song about a screwdriver. More champagne, if you will.’

Cameron
Bell supplied the Beast with more champagne.

‘I am
Crowley,’ said Crowley. ‘Finest Thinker of the Age. Logos of the Aeon. Laird of
Boleskine. I am one Hell of a Holy Guru.’

‘And
enjoying salubrious accommodations at present, I gather,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Did
another aunt die and leave you a share of her fortune?’

Aleister
Crowley made a surly face. ‘There are those who will pay to learn the Ultimate
Truths,’ said he. ‘Although these Truths are naturally beyond price.’

‘Still
charming the ladies of the court, then.’ Cameron Bell toasted Aleister Crowley.
‘I am sorry to have disappointed you tonight, when you had hoped to meet
another willing customer.’

‘Say
whatever you have to say, and quickly,’ said Aleister Crowley. ‘I tire of your
banal conversation. I have important matters to attend to.’

‘As
indeed do I.’ Mr Bell toasted Crowley once again. Crowley downed further
champagne.

‘I
understand,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘that you presently have a lodger.’

‘My
house is always a haven for seekers after truth.’

‘I
will not mince words,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have every reason to believe that
you are harbouring a notorious wanted criminal by the name of Lavinia
Dharkstorrm!’

‘Not
so loud!’
The
Beast did flappings of the hands, spilling much champagne all over his shirtfront.

Cameron
Bell replenished his glass.

‘The
question is,’ said Mr Bell, ‘has she joined your gang, or have you joined
hers?’

Aleister
Crowley opened his mouth to lie.

‘Ah,’
said Cameron Bell. ‘Neither. Her circle would consist exclusively of women, I
suppose.’

‘As
does mine,’ said Aleister Crowley.

Cameron
smiled. ‘Miss Dharkstorrm is beyond your powers to charm,’ he said.

‘The
woman is a harridan,’ said Aleister Crowley. ‘She moved herself in with that
fat tub of lard and chucked out all my women and my servants.’

‘By
“fat tub of lard”, I presume that you are referring to Madam Glory?’

Aleister
Crowley nodded. Gloomily. ‘They eat my food and drink my drink and when I
suggested that the three of us sport amongst the pillows—’

‘They
did not take it kindly,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘They
did not take it
at all!’
said Aleister Crowley.

‘So
there you are, fetching and carrying for these women— ‘Well, I would not put it
quite like
that.’

‘No,’
said Cameron Bell. ‘Of course you would not. But let us speak no more of such
matters for now. What say we become nostalgic, Crowley? Recall when we were up
at Oxford together? What fun then we had on nights out at the music hall.’

Crowley
made a thoughtful face, then shrugged his manly shoulders. ‘It would keep me
out of the house for a while,’ he said.

The evening
passed in a most enjoyable fashion as the finest turns in London performed on
the floodlit stage. There was even an unexpected guest appearance by the lovely
Alice Lovell and her performing kiwi birds. Cameron Bell’s heart fluttered when
he saw Alice, for she had once been the only true love of his life.

The
performances reached their climax with the topmost of the bill. Sammy ‘the
Screw-Scriver’ Scrivener swaggered onto the stage (which was the swaggering
part of his performance), did a little crowd-pleasing stagger (the staggering
part) and then launched into the famous suggestive screwdriver song that had
made his name famous —