The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds

  ‘As might befit such a fighting machine,’ mused Cameron Bell.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Ernest Rutherford.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But tell me this — is there nothing the surgeons here can do to restore the lady’s beauty?’

  ‘Sadly, no.’ The chemist shook his head. ‘It is beyond the skills of this present age. But no doubt in some far and distant time—’

  ‘I see,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘You do?’ asked Ernest Rutherford.

  ‘It is your intention to convey Miss Wond into the future in your time-ship, where surgeons with skills far advanced beyond our own can right the wrong that was done to her.’

  ‘Such is my dearest wish,’ said Ernest Rutherford.

  ‘And it is my duty to see that this comes to pass. Please convey to Miss Wond my fondest regards and best wishes for a speedy recovery. I must now go off about my business, so farewell, Mr Rutherford.’

  But Cameron Bell did not go off about his business, for he had no business to go off about at all. He would have returned to the Palace of Magic, in hopeful search of Lavinia Dharkstorrm’s corpse, but a morning newspaper informed him that the entirety of Eaton Place and several other streets besides had burned to the ground last night.

  With no loss of life reported, said the paper.

  Mr Bell found some consolation in learning that this outrage, along with the wanton destruction of a public house named the Lucky Jim, had been put down to the work of anarchists.

  And of Princess Pamela’s whereabouts?

  She had flown away into the sky. She could be anywhere.

  Mr Bell sighed dismally, then set off on foot towards Scotland Yard in the hope of scrounging some money.

  Days passed into weeks passed into months.

  And Cameron Bell came up with nothing at all. Late in November, however, he received a call from Chief Inspector Case. It was a rather urgent call. Mr Bell, who was still drawing a considerable salary from the Yard’s petty-cash tin, felt honour bound to answer this urgent call.

  Chief Inspector Case was in his kiwi cloak and paper crown. Cameron Bell gave him very careful lookings up and down.

  ‘Well, at least,’ said he, ‘your wife has left the country.’

  ‘Run off to Milan with that Señor Voice.’ The chief inspector’s voice had much joy in it. ‘And good riddance to bad—’

  ‘And why have you called me here?’

  ‘It is a difficult matter,’ said the chief inspector, ‘and only you can deal with it.’

  Cameron Bell rubbed his hands together. A challenge, any challenge, he would take to happily. He was resigned now to the fact that the next encounter he would have with Madam Glory, with or without Miss Dharkstorrm, would be on New Year’s Eve at the Grand Exposition. He had absolutely no doubt that it would be there that the Lady Beast, the female Antichrist, would seek to usurp the throne of Queen Victoria. True, it gave him plenty of time to plan, and he had every hope that a plan would be coming together. But in the meantime he just sat and stewed. And drank too much and worried about what might be.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Bell, ‘what is it that only I can deal with?’

  ‘The Crime of the Century,’ said the chief inspector. ‘We have already dealt with that.’ Mr Bell found the chief inspector’s Scotch and helped himself to a glassful. ‘You single-handedly defeated the Masked Shadow and saved the Crown Jewels and I am assured your knighthood is awaiting you.

  ‘Not that Crime of the Century,’ said the chief inspector. ‘There has been another one.’

  ‘Another Crime of the Century?’

  The chief inspector nodded his crown. ‘The Bank of England has been robbed,’ he said.

  The two men shared a cab to the Bank of England and as the horse trotted before them, Chief Inspector Case, in his street clothes, explained what he felt concerning the situation.

  ‘You can’t have two Crimes of the Century,’ he said. ‘It just isn’t done.’

  The cabbie, a professional hackney carriage driver who had recently moved from Brighton to seek his fortune in the big city, took them by way of the Mall. Mr Bell was most impressed by the shimmering palace of glass that now covered so many many acres of Green Park.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Bell?’ asked Chief Inspector . Case.

  ‘I am all ears,’ said the detective. ‘There cannot be two Crimes of the Century, we are both agreed upon that.’

  ‘So I want you to solve this one quietly. With absolutely no publicity and no fuss. In a manner that involves no explosions whatsoever and no expense at all to Scotland Yard.’

  Cameron Bell made a crestfallen face. That didn’t sound like much fun.

  Eventually they reached the Bank of England, where the Brightonian cabby was most miffed to discover that he would not be paid anything at all for the journey as his vehicle had apparently just been ‘commandeered for official police business‘.

  The Bank of England truly was a fortress. Its vaults had walls some six feet thick and huge steel doors with mighty locks and big armed guards that none would dare to fuss with.

  The chief inspector and the consulting detective were led to the vaults by a clerk who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jacob Marley out of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.

  ‘It’s sometimes more of a blessing than a curse,’ he said to Cameron Bell.

  ‘Working at the Bank of England?’ the detective asked.

  ‘Looking like one of Mr Dickens’s characters. People must mention it all the time that you look like Mr Pickwick.’

  ‘Never, ever,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Is this the vault in question?’

  The clerk nodded, ‘umbly.[23]

  Cameron Bell examined the door. ‘No evidence at all of forced entry,’ he said. And he raised an eyebrow at the clerk who resembled Jacob Marley.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said the fellow. ‘I’m not in charge of the keys.’

  Chief Inspector Case called to a burly guard. ‘Open her up, please, if you will,’ he said.

  The burly guard went about his business in a manner both slow and sedate, dragged upon the enormous door and waved Mr Bell and the chief inspector in.

  Chief Inspector Case lit a gas mantle.

  Cameron Bell said, ‘Oh my dear dead mother.’

  ‘Certainly makes you think, does it not?’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘I mean, what kind of criminal mastermind steals three million pounds’ worth of gold from the Bank of England and replaces it with a pile of old rubbish? I ask you.’

  Cameron Bell beheld the pile of old rubbish. For such indeed it was, being comprised of numerous mouldy bananas, a bedpan and other sundry items.

  Mr Bell picked up a small pair of trousers with a strange snood affair at the rear.

  ‘Perhaps they tunnelled in somewhere,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Why are you grinning like that, Mr Bell?’

  And Mr Bell was grinning, for he had come to a most surprising — but wholly accurate — conclusion regarding precisely how this had been done.

  ‘Might I ask,’ said he, ‘who owned the gold that was taken?’

  ‘The foundries and builders and suchlike who constructed the Grand Exposition. It was all built at Lord Brentford’s expense, you know.’

  ‘Bravo, Darwin,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Chief Inspector Case.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘So what do you propose to do now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Nothing?’ asked Chief Inspector Case.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘For now. We will solve this crime in January next year.

  ‘But this is the Crime of the Century!’ protested the chief inspector.

  ‘And as you so rightly said, you cannot have two Crimes of the Century in the same century, so I propose that we leave this vault and quietly close the door behind us. Then you can take all the credit for solving it next year. When it w
ill be the Crime of the Coming Century.’

  ‘Well, blow me down,’ said Chief Inspector Case. ‘Do you think it will earn me another knighthood?’

  ‘You will probably receive the Order of the Garter.’

  Chief Inspector Case was grinning now. ‘Let me buy you lunch, Mr Bell,’ he said.

  Darwin and Lord Brentford stood within the vast and echoing atrium of the Grand Exposition, where the gigantic arched roof of glass dwindled into great distances, an ornate fountain played and five thousand seats were arrayed before the stage of the concert hall.

  ‘It is all complete now,’ said Lord Brentford. Darwin looked up at his lordship, then reached up and clasped him by the hand.

  ‘It is a wonderful thing,’ said Darwin. ‘A beautiful thing. I hope that it is everything you wished for and that it becomes a symbol of peace between the planets.’

  Lord Brentford looked down at his monkey butler. ‘This could not have come to pass had it not been for you,’ he said. ‘I would be in my grave now and this might never have happened.’

  ‘I am very happy I could help,’ said Darwin.

  Lord Brentford gave the little hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Let me take you to lunch,’ he said, ‘at Patrick’s Flaming Chickens.’

  ‘Might I have a chair to sit on this time?’ Darwin asked.

  ‘A chair with cushions and a bottle of bubbly to share between just the two of us?’

  ‘I would like that very much,’ said Darwin.

  50

  very passing day brought news of the Wonders of the Worlds. The papers spoke of very little else. The three glazed halls were now complete and marvels moved by land and sea and air towards the Empire’s heart.

  Nightly the music halls sounded with songs about the Grand Exposition. The one crooned by ‘Topical’ Ted McCready was typical of their kind.

  WON’T IT BE GRAND AT THE GRAND

  EXPOSITION?

  From India, I hear, there comes an automated elephant

  That can carry hunters on a grand shikar.

  From China there comes china

  And from South of Carolina

  A set of clockwork minstrels, most harmonious to hear.

  The Czar of all the Russias sends an animated egg

  That can walk and talk and dance and sing.

  The Rajah of Beirut

  Has sent a most surprising suit

  That is sewn together from one hundred miles of string.

  From Africa, I’ve heard there comes a diamond

  That’s easily the size of my old head.

  Some umbrellas from Tibet

  To keep you dry if it gets wet

  Or a handy hat from Harrods, if you fancy that instead.

  Soooooooooooooooooooooo—

  Won’t it be grand at the Grand Exposition?

  Won’t there be wonders on view?

  With every appliance

  A marvel of science

  And big bowls of Jovian stew.

  Won’t there be things to amaze us?

  And won’t there be plenty to do?

  Yes, won’t it be grand at the Grand Exposition

  If I’m going there with you.

  Darwin and Lord Brentford now attended daily, with his lordship directing the setting up and installation of all the marvellous things.

  On a morning in late December, Darwin watched in considerable awe and trepidation as an airship spanning a goodly portion of London sky arrived with a Martian spacecraft slung beneath it. A rather spiffing spacecraft, this, all polished enamel and burnished new chrome. A spacecraft that was named the Marie Lloyd.

  Darwin shivered, for he knew that one day he would die aboard this spacecraft.

  ‘Mr Rutherford’s time-ship,’ said Lord Brentford to his ape. ‘The very symbol of England’s scientific prowess. How fitting that a ship of war should become a ship of peace. Assuming that it works, of course. But that’s another matter.’

  Darwin looked on as roof sections slid aside upon hidden hydraulics and the Marie Lloyd was lowered into the great glazed building.

  ‘A special treat for you this afternoon, my boy.’ Lord Brentford patted Darwin on his little hairy head. ‘The orchestra and chorus will be rehearsing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony under the baton of the Italian Master Arturo Toscanini. Small invited audience. You’ll have a seat at the front.’

  Darwin knew little of classical music. It was mostly beyond his understanding, but much of what he had heard, he liked. And some of what he had heard that he liked had moved him very much.

  It was a well-dressed Darwin who at two that afternoon was to be found in the concert hall of the Grand Exposition, standing proudly beside Lord Brentford as the nobleman welcomed the specially invited audience.

  Darwin was pleasantly surprised by the arrival of his old friends Lord George Fox, his wife Lady Ada and their son, the Honourable Connor. Darwin fell to the shaking of Lord George’s hand and did not mind overmuch when young Connor gave his tail a hearty tug.

  Darwin now saw many familiar faces and he recalled most ruefully where he had seen them before. They had all been guests at Lord Brentford’s soirée on that fateful night when the older Darwin had crashed the Marie Lloyd into the Bananary.

  When all were seated and coughings concluded, Arturo Toscanini, in velvet tailcoat, white tie, waistcoat and mittens (for it was December and there were some problems with the heating), mounted the conductor’s rostrum and addressed the audience.

  ‘Good people,’ said he, in those Italian tones that set a fair lady’s heart all a—flutter, ‘it is my deepest pleasure that we perform for you this afternoon — the Glorious Ninth.’

  The orchestra numbered one hundred and twenty, the choir two hundred more, and as the great conductor took up the baton and brought the orchestra into the first movement, Darwin found his little heart a-fluttering.

  Such music he had never heard, nor had such music ever played in such a setting.

  The allegro ma non troppo of the first movement, in sonata form and played pianissimo above string tremolos, curled in orchestrated waves throughout the mighty building, swirling towards the low bassoon that brought it to its close.

  The tears were already in Darwin’s eyes and he clutched the hand of Lord Brentford.

  An hour and a half later, folk drifted from the concert hall, mounted into their carriages and were driven away up the Mall. Lord Brentford and Darwin emerged and Lord Brentford said, ‘Words are not really sufficient to express it, are they, Darwin, my boy?’

  The monkey butler shook his head. ‘I had no idea that such beauty could exist,’ he replied.

  ‘Just wait until you hear it again in a couple of weeks, when it opens the Grand Exposition.’

  ‘A couple of weeks?’ said Darwin wistfully. ‘I had not realised that it was quite so soon.

  And yet it was. And as the two looked off along the Mall in the direction of Buckingham Palace, they could see the arrival of high-sided Jovian cheese wagons bearing their pungent cargoes towards the Hall of Jupiter where jolly men from this swollen world were setting up their stalls.

  ‘Still much to be done,’ said Lord Brentford, ‘and much more yet to arrive. We will leave the installation of the Venusian exhibit until the very last minute. Don’t want any accidents, or anything going wrong.

  Darwin nodded his hairy little head and trembled just a little. It would be a while before he got over the Ninth, if indeed ever he did.

  ‘Cold, boy?’ asked Lord Brentford. ‘It is rather nippy. Come up here inside me coat, it’s nice and warm in there.’

  Cameron Bell had attended the concert, though Darwin had not seen him. The detective had hidden himself away at the back of the hall and tried to picture how things would be upon the opening night. A special royal box had been raised to the rear of the concert hall and Mr Bell sat beneath this. There was much ado in the papers about Mr Churchill’s ‘Ring of Steel’ that would protect the royal person, the concert-goers and indeed the entire building
from the unwelcome attentions of the anarchists. Mr Churchill’s vigilance was nonpareil, the papers said, and nothing whatsoever of evil intent would ever slip by him.

  Cameron Bell offered up a sigh to this statement. As he had managed to enter the concert hall this afternoon without so much as showing his ticket.

  Mr Bell studied a plan of the Grand Exposition and hoped against hope that he would be able to resolve matters without the employment of dynamite.

  Miss Violet Wond had not attended the concert, although Darwin had sent out an invitation to ‘Mr Rutherford and guest’. The veiled lady was engaged in a vigorous exercise regime to re-tone muscles made lax by her hospital stay. To the vast dismay of the broken-nosed and brutish, she lifted weights in a Whitechapel Boxing Club and took on all-comers for sport.

  Lavinia Dharkstorrm had suffered considerable damage. She had lost an ear, shot from her head by Lady Raygun whilst she was taking the fearsome shape of a lion. And she had lost too a great deal of hair, burned away in the conflagration at the Palace of Magic. Repeated blows to the chin had fractured her jawbone and her sister had stamped very hard on her foot, breaking three of her toes.

  Lavinia Dharkstorrm fumed away in a very secret place and vowed to take terrible revenge.

  Leah the Venusian had, to Lord Brentford’s deep sorrow, declined his invitation to attend the Ninth’s rehearsal. She had things to do, she told the noble lord.

  In a gown that was as wisps of frozen smoke, she stood before a council of senior ecclesiastics within the Venusian Embassy.

  ‘Leah d’relh, of Northern Rimmer, Magonia, you come before us with a strange request.’ A gaunt and graceful being with pinnacles of snow-white hair addressed the beautiful creature. ‘It is your request that you be permitted to marry an Earther.’