‘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 —
THE OLD SCREW-SCRIVER
— with which the crowd sang along. Making sure to lay a heavy emphasis upon any word that could possibly be considered suggestive.
Now I’ve known many kinds of tool,
But not in the biblical sense.
They’ve helped with my erection
Of my grandmother’s fence.
I’ve worn my wrist out doing it,
I tell you I’m no skiver.
For a nail will fail
What a screw can do
When you do it with your old screw-scriver.
Chorus:
I did it with my old screw-scriver
Did it with my old screw-scriver
You hold it in your fist
Do it with your wrist
It goes in straight
Or it will go in p**sed.
I didn’t drown
When the ship went down,
I was the sole survivor.
&nb
sp; For I’m not daft
I built myself a raft
And I did it with my old screw-scriver.
The applause was truly deafening and numerous young ladies carried away upon the moment tossed their bloomers onto the stage. Sammy ‘the Screw-Scriver’ Scrivener had once again made it another night to remember.
Cameron Bell upended the champagne bottle.
‘Another dead soldier,’ he said. ‘What a most pleasurable evening.’
Aleister Crowley hiccupped loudly, for he was far-gone with the drink.
‘Bit squiffy?’ asked Cameron Bell, still surprisingly chipper. ‘Drink is never the master of me,’ slurred the Beast, sliding sideways on his chair. ‘We should go on to a club.’
‘We should,’ agreed Mr Bell, and he brought from his waistcoat pocket a pillbox.
‘What have you there?’ asked Crowley. viewing several pillboxes.
‘A rather splendid pick-me-up my pharmacist put together for me, part laudanum, part heroin, part—’
‘Share them out,’ called Crowley. ‘I want two.’
‘They are very strong.’
‘I have slipped things down my throat that you would not believe,’ said Aleister Crowley.
Cameron Bell added no comment to that.
But generously offered Mr Crowley a pill.
‘Give me two,’ said Crowley.
Cameron gave him two.
‘Now let us go down and hail a cab,’ said Mr Bell. ‘First my club and then yours — we will make a night of it.’
‘We will,’ said Aleister Crowley, rising, tumbling back, then rising once again. Cameron Bell helped up the Beast, who put his arm about the detective’s shoulders.
‘You are my friend,’ mumbled Aleister Crowley. ‘My bestest friend.’
‘Of course I am,’ said Cameron Bell, aiding the stumbling Beast. ‘Of course I am.
By the time any transport could be found, Mr Crowley was no longer able to stand. Nor indeed open his eyes. Cameron Bell and the driver bundled the unconscious Logos of the Aeon into the hansom cab.
‘You want I should drop him home, then, guv’nor?’ enquired the driver.
‘No,‘ said Cameron Bell. ‘Take him please to Saint Pancras Station and put him on the night train to Edinburgh. Here is his ticket. And here a guinea for your trouble. I doubt if he can be woken, but treat him very gently nonetheless.
‘Certainly, guv’nor,’ said the driver. ‘And might I say that this young chap here should be grateful to have such a caring friend as you.
‘I am more of a friend to him than he knows,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
The hansom departed with Crowley aboard.
Mr Bell perused his pocket watch.
He was still extremely chipper. For after all, he had consumed but a single glass of champagne.
‘One down and one to go,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And unless I am very much mistaken — and I do not believe myself to be so — the fun will begin at the Palace of Magic upon the stroke of midnight.’
47
ing’s Road, driver,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And smartly, if you will.’
The driver of the electric-wheeler, whom Mr Bell had engaged for the evening and who had been looking on in puzzlement as his fare helped load an unconscious fellow into a hansom cab, said, ‘Certainly, sir.’
The driver climbed into his cockpit and Mr Bell settled down onto the purple leather seating within. He really did love it when a plan came together, and he had worked hard upon this particular one. He had successfully lured Aleister Crowley to the Electric Alhambra and gleaned from him the required information that the only people within the Palace of Magic were Lavinia Dharkstorrm and her mistress Princess Pamela, aka Madam Glory. Then administered sufficient champagne and sleeping pills to Mr Crowley to render him unconscious and dispatched him as far away as possible so that he might come to no harm in the ensuing holocaust.
A holocaust he felt confident would shortly be brought into being by Lady Raygun. Mr Bell had reasoned that if he informed the vengeful woman where Lavinia Dharkstorrm lurked and arranged to meet her there the following evening, she would surely ignore the proposed arrangement and attack Miss Dharkstorrm on this very night.
‘Or at least I certainly hope she will,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Did you ask me something, guv’nor?’ asked the driver of the electric-wheeler.
‘No,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Only if there’s anythink you wants to know, I’s be happy to be supplying you with answers.
‘I just need to get to the corner of Eaton Place before midnight,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘And so you shall, guv’nor. What do you make of this ‘ere business with falling frogs and likewise?’
‘Anarchists,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.
‘So you don’t think we ‘as to worry that it is the end of the world?’
Cameron Bell offered nothing in reply.
‘Me missus,’ said the driver, ‘ ‘as the ‘ole thing figured owt.’
‘I am coming more and more to the conclusion,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘that women are either in charge of, behind or to blame for almost everything.’
‘Fierce words, guv’nor,’ said the driver, swerving to knock a passing cleric off his bike.
‘And why did you do that?’ asked Cameron Bell. ‘Because I ‘olds them to blame,’ said the driver. ‘Clerics and Godmen. Me missus ‘as come to the conclusion that the world will end at midnight upon New Year’s Eve.’
Cameron Bell shuddered slightly. ‘And how has she drawn this dire conclusion?’ he asked.
‘Numerology,’ said the driver. ‘It’s all very complicated, but I think I ‘as the measure of it. First you add the numbers in Queen Victoria’s birth date together and—’
Cameron Bell gazed out of the window and dreamed of happier times.
‘And you subtract the difference in days since the date of her birth and the very last day of this year, and add the square on the hypotenuse—’
An airship passed across the starry sky.
‘Take away the number you first thought of—’
‘Ah, we have arrived,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Add one for the pot and half a sixpence.’ The driver drew the wheeler to a halt. ‘And you ‘ave nine hundred and ninety nine,’ said he, ‘and you cannot argue with that.’
‘Nor would I wish to,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But what would the significance of this number be?’
‘It’s the Number of the Beast,’ said the driver.
‘No,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘the number of the Beast is six hundred and sixty-six.’
‘If it were a man,’ said the driver. ‘But you see, it ain’t no man — the Beast is a woman, so her number is six-six-six upside down. Nine-nine-nine is the number of the Lady Beast. And she was born on the twenty-fourth of May, eighteen nineteen,’ said the driver.
‘Ah,‘ said Cameron Bell. ‘Then according to your wife, Queen Victoria is the Antichrist.’
‘Not so loud, guv’nor, not even at night. But it all works out on paper. Not that I would dare to suggest such a thing against our glorious monarch. But unless she ‘as a twin sister, it looks like she’s the one.’
Cameron Bell climbed from the electric-wheeler on the corner of Cadogan Street and told the driver to wait for him there.
Mr Bell then slipped away into a darkened alley.
And there, had he been of an athletic disposition with the double joints of a contortionist, he would have kicked himself repeatedly in the behind. It was all so obvious. It had been staring him in the face all along and he had failed to see it. It was every bit the clichéd old scenario of the Evil Twin. So clichéd that surely no one would dare to trot it out once again. And a female Antichrist? Well, that one wasn’t so obvious. But it did all fall into place. This was all to do with women. It was Eve who had committed the first sin — why not a woman to commit the final one? And a woman who was the identical twin of the world’s most iconic monarch?
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It was prophesied that the arrival of the Antichrist would herald the End of Days, and that only those in his — or in this case, her — service would remain on Earth, after the good were gathered up to Heaven in the Rapture.
The four reliquaries had been brought into an unhallowed place. The biblical plagues were an announcement that the Antichrist was coming.
And when would the Antichrist come?
As the Book of Sayito foretold: on the very last day of this year.
And how would the Antichrist manifest?
By usurping the throne of her sister, Queen Victoria!
Cameron Bell had a vision, and a terrible vision it was. He saw the halls of the Grand Exposition and the thousands come to celebrate the Wonders of the Worlds on the final day of the century. He saw the London Symphony Orchestra and the great choir come to perform Beethoven’s Ninth. He saw Her Majesty mounting to a throne within the concert hall. He saw fire, he saw brimstone, he saw torment.
And he beheld Madam Glory.
Who upon the final day of the century …
Upon the final hour …
Would destroy the Good Queen Victoria …
And rule instead upon her throne.
Had Cameron Bell not been possessed of a particularly strong stomach, he would certainly have been sick right there and then in the darkened alleyway.
‘There is still time,’ whispered Cameron Bell. ‘There is still time to stop this.’
‘Look at him tremble,’ said Lavinia Dharkstorrm, ‘all alone in the alleyway.’ Lavinia wore a gown of mauve that matched her dazzling eyes. Beside her stood a woman all in pink.