The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds

  The chemist led the veiled lady to the door of many padlocks and then into the room that lay beyond. As he locked the door behind him, his guest seated herself on one of the oaken benches.

  ‘This room certainly has wood,’ said Miss Violet Wond.

  ‘Would you care for a cordial?’ asked Mr Rutherford. ‘I generally offer my guests champagne, but it is somewhat early in the morning for that, I feel.’

  ‘Champagne will be fine,’ said Miss Wond. ‘I have lately arrived from Mars and am still rocket-lagged, as I believe the expression goes.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the chemist, repairing to his maple cabinet and drawing out a bottle and a pair of fluted glasses. ‘I understand from your letter that your permanent residence is on Mars. Do you know Mr Septimus Grey?’

  ‘The Governor of the Martian Territories is an intimate friend of mine.’

  Mr Rutherford raised an eyebrow as he uncorked the champagne. There was no doubt in his mind that this woman’s conversation was laced with suggestive remarks. But of course, as a gentleman, it was not for him to comment on this.

  As he poured champagne, he said, ‘Madam, by your veil and your attire, might one assume that you have recently suffered a loss?’

  ‘One might assume so,’ said the lady, accepting her champagne.

  ‘But it is not the case?’

  ‘Not the case.’ The lady lifted her veil sufficiently to admit the champagne glass.

  ‘Then you may raise your veil here.’ Mr Rutherford set down the bottle and toasted with his glass.

  ‘I wear the veil for protection,’ said the lady.

  ‘Ah, mosquitoes and suchlike. You will have no need of it here.’

  ‘Not for my protection.’ The lady lowered her champagne glass. Her champagne glass was empty.

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘Or rather, I do not.’

  ‘And it is better that way.’ The lady in the veil held out her glass for a refill. Mr Rutherford took up the bottle and performed this pleasurable duty.

  ‘Well, to business,’ he said. ‘According to your letter, you have a scientific project that you would like me to become involved with.’

  ‘There is no man in the Empire more qualified than you to fulfil my desires.’ The champagne glass disappeared once more beneath the heavy veil.

  ‘Quite so. Perhaps you would be so kind as to outline your requirements — your letter was somewhat vague on details.’ Mr Rutherford settled himself without comfort onto one of the uncomfortable chairs. His mysterious guest produced a large envelope from somewhere about her person and handed it to him. Mr Rutherford removed the contents and examined them with interest.

  Time passed. Mr Rutherford became engrossed. The lady rose and refilled her glass. Further time passed and finally Mr Rutherford said, ‘Well, I never did.’

  The lady turned her veiled face towards him. ‘Are you capable?’ she asked.

  ‘Capable? Well, yes. The theory appears sound, and I cannot immediately fault the equations. But whether it is possible—’

  ‘I know it to be possible,’ the lady said.

  ‘Well, anything is possible,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘Except perhaps for Jones being crowned the Queen of the May.’

  ‘Then you will do it?’

  Mr Rutherford stroked at his chin. ‘Let me understand this,’ he said, ‘so there can be no ambiguity of word or thought. This item you wish me to formulate — might it be described as a membrane?’

  ‘That word is as good as any,’ said the lady. ‘It cloaks the wearer and confers certain properties upon them.’

  ‘Indeed it would appear to.’ The chemist topped up both glasses. ‘It would confer upon its wearer abilities that could rightly be described as superhuman.’

  ‘The power of flight,’ said the lady, ‘and a degree of invulnerability.’

  ‘That might be a contradiction in terms,’ said Mr Rutherford, ‘like being a bit unique. Although this project is certainly a bit unique. The passage upon the absorption of light, for instance—’

  ‘Invisibility,’ said the lady. ‘Light bent upon a molecular level.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. It is a work of genius. This could revolutionise so very much — society could be changed for ever.’

  ‘That is not my wish.’ The lady shook her head. ‘There are elements involved of which the general public must never learn.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘You are referring to the magical element.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Mr Rutherford nodded thoughtfully. ‘And there is the “rub”, as the bard once put it. For me to engage in this project would mean to flout interplanetary laws. The magic of Venus is deeply involved and it is illegal to practise Venusian magic upon Earth.’

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ said the lady, in a most coquettish tone.

  ‘In all truth,’ said the chemist, ‘you tempt me. The physics involved is revolutionary. There is an atomic principle here that I would never have fathomed. But should I be discovered to be engaged in such a project I would be carted off to prison, probably thereafter to be dispatched to a court upon Venus at whose hands I would doubtless meet an ugly end.’

  ‘I would reward you for your work in a manner you would not find disagreeable.’

  Mr Rutherford raised an eyebrow once more. And sighed.

  ‘Dear lady, I cannot,’ he said. ‘I am earning a reputation in my field of endeavour. I am presently engaged in something that in its own way might also change the course of history.’

  ‘The Large Hadron Collider,’ said the veiled lady, ‘and the top—secret project attached to this.’

  Mr Rutherford, who was sipping champagne, sneezed some into his nose. ‘You know of this?’ he said. ‘How do you know of this?’

  ‘I have friends in high places,’ said the lady. ‘Close friends who confide to me all manner of information.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the chemist. ‘I must remain firm, I regret.’

  ‘Peruse the equations once more,’ the lady suggested, ‘particularly the section regarding the negation of gravity — surely that has some resonance with your present endeavours.’

  ‘Well …’ said Mr Rutherford, and he scratched at his head.

  ‘You would have my permission to apply them as you wish. And I will of course pay handsomely.’

  ‘It is not the money,’ said Rutherford. Although to a certain degree it is always the money. ‘Although—’

  ‘Do what I require and I will furnish you with something you require. Something physical.’

  Mr Rutherford sighed anew.

  ‘A spaceship,’ said the lady. ‘I am informed that in order to complete your present work you require a spaceship to convert into a vehicle that will travel through t—’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘Do not speak the word, not even here. But yes, I do require a spaceship. And spaceships do not become available to purchase.’

  ‘I own a spaceship,’ said the lady. ‘I arrived here in it yesterday. It is called the Marie Lloyd and it is yours to do with as you wish if you will create what I require.’

  Mr Rutherford put down his glass and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Would you like some time to think the matter over?’ The lady in black rose to her feet and placed her glass beside that of Mr Rutherford’s.

  ‘Well, yes. Well, no. Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can help you to make up your mind.’

  The chemist sighed once more.

  ‘Look at me,’ said the lady in black, ‘and listen to my words.’

  Mr Rutherford looked up from his face-burying. ‘What of this?’ he asked.

  ‘A terrible wrong was done to me,’ said the lady, ‘a terrible wrong that has made me the thing that I am. I will show you something that few have seen and fewer could possibly understand. It will shock you deeply to see this, but you, as a man of science, will understand what you see. Then you will know why I require what I do from you
, and if you are possessed of a soul, you will do this thing for me. Prepare yourself’

  And with these words said, the lady slowly raised her veil.

  Ernest Rutherford stared and stared in awe.

  As the lady lifted high her veil, tears sprang into the chemist’s eyes.

  ‘Oh dear God,’ said Ernest Rutherford. ‘Oh, sweet lady, who has done this dreadful thing?’

  ‘Will you do what I ask of you?’ the lady said.

  ‘All and more besides. Whatever I can.’ Mr Rutherford’s face was ghostly white and both his hands were shaking.

  The lady in black lowered her veil and extended her hand to be shaken. ‘I feel certain that we will enjoy a most satisfying relationship. You look as if you might have trouble getting up, so I will take care of myself Farewell for now.’

  And with that, Violet Wond took her leave, swinging her parasol.

  15

  rim were the thoughts of Cameron Bell and glum his disposition.

  A night spent at his desk in the company of brandy had done nothing to lighten his mood. The cries from the street that awakened him to a new day brought no joy whatever.

  ‘Leicester Square gorn up in smoke,’ bawled newsboys. ‘Read orl abaht it. Terrible conflagration. ‘Undreds dead. Anarchists blamed.’

  ‘Hundreds dead?’ groaned Cameron Bell. ‘Say it isn’t so.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ bawled the voice from the street. ‘Only two dead, it’s a misprint. Anarchists still blamed, however.’

  The dejected detective stretched and did loud clickings of the neck. He scratched at stubble on his chin and arose with a grump and a grumble.

  Beyond the office window London was stirring. There were all the makings of another hot day. Folk in pale linens were taking the air and a regiment of the Queen’s Own Hussars rode by on magnificent greys.

  Mr Bell steadied himself at the window, returned to his desk and drank down a remaining half-glass of brandy, then wandered off to change and wash and shave and make himself decent.

  At a little after eight of the morning clock, looking well-scrubbed and neat in pale linens of his own, Mr Bell was to be found marching in the direction of Scotland Yard.

  Over the years, the great detective had cultivated many friendships within his sphere of professional influence. He had helped out more than a few, and more than a few knew he had done so. A certain chief inspector at Scotland Yard owed Mr Bell many favours.

  The chief inspector’s name was Chief Inspector Case, and recently he had been experiencing some difficulties. He had also recently been a commander, but he had fallen from grace.

  Although on the outside dapper and well kept, with the military bearing of one who had served his Queen and country in the Electric Fusiliers, the chief inspector was a rather troubled man.

  He had recently taken to the belief that the blood of the Aztecs flowed in his veins and as supposed proof of this demonstrated that he could crack walnuts beneath his arm-pits and sing ‘songs of advancement’ in a tongue of his own invention.

  In times past, such behaviour and beliefs might well have had the man consigned to Bedlam. But as everyone nowadays did crack on about how enlightened were the times, the chief inspector was left to his own devices with words from his superiors being offered to the effect: ‘We do not care if you think you’re Monte-ruddy-zuma, just as long as you solve some crimes every once in a while.’ Failure to do so, it was hinted, would incur further demotion.

  Having gained entrance to Scotland Yard, Mr Bell sought out the office of Chief Inspector Case and rapped a knuckle briskly on the door.

  ‘Come unto me,’ called a voice from within. Cameron Bell sighed deeply and entered the office. The chief inspector was sitting cross-legged upon his desk, and upon his head he wore a crown made from folded newspapers, which he had adorned with beer bottle tops. A gorgeous cloak of kiwi pelts was wrapped around and about him.

  ‘Prostrate yourself,’ said Chief Inspector Case. Cameron Bell gave a foolish curtsey. ‘That is all you are going to get,’ said he.

  ‘Bell,’ said the chief inspector. ‘It is you, is it not?’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Cameron Bell. ‘Your powers of observation are, as ever, faultless.’

  ‘They seek to destroy me,’ said the cross-legged sitter.

  ‘They?’ asked Cameron Bell.

  ‘Powers,’ said the wearer of the paper crown. ‘Dark powers. They are all about us, you know.’

  ‘I know it all too well,’ said Mr Bell, ‘which is why I am here.’

  ‘They say that I am mad,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘They say that I do not swim with both feet in the water.’

  ‘You are as sane as I,’ said Cameron Bell. Which worried him as he said it. ‘And I come to you because you are all-knowing.’

  The paper crown bobbed as the head beneath it nodded.

  ‘I wish to consult your records — those in the “unsolved” file, I think.’

  ‘That is a very large file,’ said the sitter, snuggling into his cloak. ‘I don’t think you should look at it. It might upset you.

  ‘That is a very beautiful cloak,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have not seen its like since the last time I visited the British Museum. Were you not engaged upon an investigation there most recently yourself?’

  ‘The filing cabinets over there will be the ones you want. ‘Chief Inspector Case hugged at his beautiful cloak. ‘Help yourself’

  Cameron Bell surveyed the filing cabinets. They stood large and defiantly, as if saying, ‘Open us if you dare.’

  ‘Perhaps I might speed up the process,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I encountered a woman last night—’

  ‘About time, too,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Jolly well done to you.’

  ‘Not in that way. This woman presented a most singular appearance.’ A shiver ran through Mr Bell as he recalled the brutal slaying of Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm’s henchmen. ‘A most violent woman.

  ‘No shortage of them,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Take my wife, for instance.’

  ‘I would prefer not. This woman wore an armoured-brass corset affair and a black rubber hood with—’

  ‘Round glass eyeholes,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Oh no — not again. I hoped we had seen the last of her.’

  ‘Then you know who she is?’ Cameron Bell was most taken aback. This exotic creature was known to the police and yet unknown to him.

  Chief Inspector Case climbed down from his desk and plodded to a filing cabinet, his magnificent kiwi cloak trailing wonderfully behind him. He slid open a drawer and tugged out a dog-eared file.

  ‘There’s not much in it,’ he said. ‘It was before my time and yours, too. She did what she did then went off-world, and she has committed a number of atrocities upon Mars since then. But they are, thankfully, out of my jurisdiction.’

  He handed the file to Mr Bell, who seated himself on a visitor’s chair and opened it up before him.

  ‘It was in eighteen eighty-nine,’ said the chief inspector, ‘in Whitechapel. A gentleman was found, horribly mutilated. His name was Graham Tiberius Hill.’

  Cameron Bell shook his head. ‘That name means nothing to me,’ he said.

  ‘A relative of the then Prime Minister who was at that time under secret investigation for certain heinous crimes committed the year before.’

  Mr Bell looked up at the chief inspector. ‘Not … ?‘ said he.

  The chief inspector nodded with his crown. ‘The Metropolitan Police’s prime suspect — we have every reason to believe that Graham Tiberius Hill was Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘And this woman killed him?’

  ‘Most horribly. You will see the rough sketch made by a Gatherer of the Pure who swore he had seen her emerge from the alley where Mr Hill was so cruelly done to death.’

  Cameron Bell rifled through the papers until he came upon the drawing. It was crude but there was no mistake. He also came upon a photograph. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  ‘A wall,’ sa
id the chief inspector.

  ‘But there is nothing on it.’

  ‘Obviously not, because a constable washed the writing off.’

  Cameron Bell sighed once again. ‘So what was written upon this wall?’

  ‘Words scrawled in chalk,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Words that read —

  LADY RAYGUN IS THE WOMAN THAT

  WILL NOT BE BLAMED FOR NOTHING.

  ‘Lady Raygun,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Lady Raygun indeed.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed, indeed, indeed, indeed, indeed.’

  These ‘indeeds’ were spoken by the controversial cleric Cardinal Cox, for Cameron Bell’s second port of call that morning was to the Bayswater residence of the colourful clergyman. A residence filled with wonders of the East in a gorgeous glittering clutter.

  Indeed, it could be said that Cardinal Cox was a man that would not be blamed for nothing. Scandal attended to him as if a faithful servant, while outrage followed on as might a spaniel.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the cardinal once more as he viewed with interest those items that were placed before him.

  ‘Reliquaries,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘I felt that they might interest you.

  ‘You wish to sell them?’ Cardinal Cox rubbed large red hands together. Everything about this man was large and red all over — his slippers, his raiments, his turban and his big red face.

  ‘Where is my catamite?’ he called, clapping those big hands in a loud smacking fashion. A youth of Arabian aspect appeared at the open door.

  ‘Fetch us some hashish, if you will, young Ahmed.’

  The boy departed, to return at length with a vast and beautiful hookah, which he placed upon the Afghan rug beside the Persian pouffe.

  ‘A bit early in the day for me,’ said Mr Bell, ‘but don’t let me stop you indulging yourself’

  ‘Indeed you will not,’ said the cardinal. ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed.’

  ‘Tell me about the reliquaries,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘How much do you want for them?’ asked the cardinal.