As Cobb walked through the door, Woodson was asking, ‘What sort of school did you say that your nephew was going to?’
‘Elementary, my dear Woodson,’ replied Soames. ‘Ah, good morning Mr. Cobb always a pleasure to see you and how may we help you today?’
‘Morning Mr. Soames, I’d like a pound of your Venison and Wine sausages please.’
‘Woodson, some sausages for our customer please.’ Turning back to Cobb he asked him, ‘Have you read the papers today Mr. Cobb? Terrible business about those clowns being killed, isn’t it? That makes twelve so far, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not really sure, I haven’t been following it that closely,’ replied Cobb, trying to avoid getting dragged into a lengthy conversation.
‘I’ve been discussing it with my colleague Mr. Woodson and I’ve developed a theory.’
‘Oh … really?’ said Cobb as uninterestedly as he could.
‘Yes, you see there have been twelve clowns killed so far, in a manner of bizarre fashions, ranging from impaling on an umbrella to choking to death on a rubber chicken. Now, some of these killings were obviously the work of several men, after all, one man couldn’t have forced “Mr. Chuckles” through that industrial mangle by himself.’
With that awful feeling of dread, not unlike the one that makes you stare at a bad accident even though you don’t want to, Cobb was unable to resist asking, ‘So who do you think did it then?’
‘Well, everybody loves clowns!’ said Soames. Cobb didn’t, he’d always found then rather creepy for some reason. Soames continued expounding his theory. ‘So it would have to be somebody who feels threatened by them. A threat to their livelihood perhaps? A rival group of clowns!’
‘I’m sorry … what?’ said Cobb, astonished.
‘A rival group of clowns, perhaps from another circus. They are eliminating the opposition, leaving them the only game in town.’
‘I think that’s a little far-fetched,’ said Cobb.
‘May I remind you of the murder of “The Amazing Lampwick And His Dog Trixie”. You know, the one that was found in his lodgings, hanged with his own balloon animals. His fellow lodgers said they heard no unusual noises that night. I would draw your attention to the curious incident of the dog.’
‘Curious incident?’
‘The dog Trixie, didn’t even bark. Now why wouldn’t the dog react to being surrounded by strangers, unless they were the type of people she was used to being around and felt at home with … other clowns. Yet the dog did nothing! That was the curious incident!’ he ended triumphantly.
Cobb stared blankly at Soames for a moment and then asked, ‘Are my sausages ready yet?’
‘Woodson, the sausages if you please!’ snapped Soames, annoyed at Cobb for not appreciating his cleverness.
‘Coming Soames, coming,’ said Woodson as he ambled through from the rear of the shop.
As Cobb paid for his purchase, the shop door opened and Soames’ delivery boy came in. ‘Ah Wiggins,’ said Soames, ‘into the back with you, lad. There’s a pile of deliveries to go out, Woodson will show you what’s to go where.’
‘How’s your new delivery boy working out?’ asked Cobb.
‘He’s a little irregular but we’ll soon teach him the ropes.’
Cobb left the shop, glad to be out of there. He often wondered if Soames was on Cocaine or something, given the nature of the exceedingly bizarre theories that he came out with. Cobb looked across the road at the sign that was being raised above the new shop.
Murriarty’s Fine Meat Emporium
That was going to give Soames and Woodson trouble in days to come, figured Cobb.
***
Cobb walked towards the bookshop, down the narrow, cobbled street called Trenton Mews. It was an old shop, a glass paned door with bay windows either side. The sign above the door read,
Antique Book Shop
Proprietor: Thornton Wells
Cobb had known Thornton Wells as long as he had known his wife Esme; he was Esme’s father, Cobb’s father-in-law. Thornton was also a widower (his wife had passed away before Cobb came on the scene) and he and Cobb had maintained their links since Esme had died. Thornton had no other children, Cobb had no one else, and so they kept in touch, not only through affection and respect but also a combined sense of loss for the same woman, Esme. They also both liked a good drink.
The bell hanging above the door tinkled as Cobb entered the shop. He looked around him at the neatly arranged display of books. As usual, there were no customers. It wasn’t an ordinary bookshop but one devoted to rare antique books and first editions. Very much a rich and exclusive clientele. Not the sort of place where people wandered in off the street and browsed, looking for the latest Charles Pickens novel or the “Collected Works of William Shortstraw”, Albion’s greatest playwright.
(Charles Pickens was an exceedingly popular novelist of the time. His gritty, realistic, tales of life in contemporary Londum were seen by some as biting social comment on the grinding poverty of the masses, in comparison to the lives of the over privileged and wealthy. Others just bought them for their steamy, salacious adult content, masquerading as criticisms of society’s injustices. Whatever the reason, they sold in the thousands, for Pickens had discovered that marketing truth … Sex Sells!
Amongst his classic bestsellers were: David Cop a’ Feel, Little Dorrit does Dallas, The Old Prophylactic Shop, Hard Times and Cruel Mistresses, Our Mutual Disease, Oliver’s Wrist ((that was a one off)) The Mystery of Edwin’s Droop and his latest, an expose of prostitution, The Sale of Two Titties.)
Thornton Wells had owned the shop as long as Cobb had known him but he hadn’t always been a shop owner. It was apparent from past conversations with Cobb that Thornton had retired from some other occupation to take up running the antique bookshop. Cobb had never been able to find out exactly what that other occupation was. When he had asked Thornton directly about it, he had received a vague reply about Thornton having been, “Something in the Foreign Office”.
In the early days of Cobb’s relationship with Esme, Cobb had developed an interest in Thornton Wells’ history. (After all, he was beginning to like Esme a lot, and he didn’t want to find out he was falling for the daughter of someone with a dodgy past.) Therefore he had made a few discreet enquiries through his friends in Special Branch at Caledonia Yard. Back had come the reply, ‘We can’t find out anything useful about him. He had worked for the Foreign Office but in what capacity no one admits to knowing. Seems he was some sort of freelancer. However, everyone speaks very highly of him. Say he’s a good man to have around in a tight spot. Whatever that means!’
At this point, Cobb had let the matter drop. He had found out all that he needed to know, the man was trustworthy and reliable, and that was good enough for him. Thornton’s history was his own affair. (However, this point of view hadn’t stopped Cobb from firing off a loaded question or two, from time to time, when they were both shall we say, relaxed after a bottle or six of wine. But Thornton had never opened up; proclaiming instead, ‘Read my memoirs dear boy, read my memoirs.’)
Thornton came through from the back of the shop, in response to the bell. ‘Ah, Cobb my good fellow, welcome.’ Cobb didn’t like being called Rufus, he had only let Esme call him that. Everyone else was told to just call him “Cobb”.
Thornton was definitely of the old school. Always polite, always charming, always well dressed. A handsome, distinguished man whose silvery-grey hair and beard, although a sign of age, just seemed to add to his presence instead of diminishing it. ‘Ready for lunch?’
‘I’ve brought some sausages,’ said Cobb. ‘Venison and Wine. It meant I had to go to that butchers again but I know they’re your favourites and he’s the only one that does them.’
‘Very considerate of you. What was today’s theory?’
‘Something about some clowns and a dog, I didn’t listen too closely.’
Thornton walked to the front of the shop, locked the door and
turned the sign to “Closed”. Taking the sausages from Cobb he led him through into the room at the rear of the shop. It was a small drawing room with a built in kitchen. Thornton actually had a luxurious apartment several streets away but this was a comfortable enough room to enjoy lunch. Thornton began to prepare the sausages. ‘I’ve opened some wine,’ he said indicating the table, where several bottles of red wine were waiting.
Cobb saw a book lying open on the table; Thornton had obviously been reading it when Cobb had arrived. Out of idle curiosity Cobb turned it over and read the title. He recognised the name of the book but he had never read it himself. It was a famous book by an ancient general from Canton, named Sun-Dae.
(Thousands of years ago, the famous Cantonese general, Sun-Dae had written this book containing all his acquired wisdom about the art of warfare. It was still read in Cobb’s time by military men as a guide on how to conduct war, both on and off the battlefield. Modern day business entrepreneurs had even adopted its tactics as a guide to conducting commercial negotiations. It was entitled “How To Win Wars And Influence People”.)
Cobb poured himself a glass of wine, took a big swig and grimaced.
‘You’re supposed to let it breathe for a while,’ said Thornton.
‘Never mind breathe … I think this one needs The Kiss Of Life,’ retorted Cobb.
‘Well, you don’t expect me to waste the good stuff on you, do you? You’re an alcoholic.’
‘No I’m not. I’ve told you before … I’m a drunk.’
‘The difference being?’
‘Alcoholics go to meetings.’
‘Well, whatever you call it, don’t you think it’s time you did something about it?’
‘Everybody’s got to have a pastime.’
‘But you’re killing yourself, old boy.’
‘Yep, that’s the plan,’ replied Cobb, amicably. ‘Besides, you’re not on the shy side when it comes to sinking a few bottles of “Vino Collapso” yourself. You can match me bottle for bottle.’
‘That’s different; I’m an old man, no point in keeping myself healthy. Might as well indulge myself and go out with a smile on my face, that’s what I say. You however, are a young man with a bright future behind you.’
‘Drink, don’t drink … what’s the difference?’
‘It’s the difference between going to sleep at night or passing out. It’s the difference between waking up in the morning instead of just coming to. I’ve seen it happen to some good men. Why do you want to live your life like that?’ Having said his piece, Thornton busied himself serving up the sausages onto plates.
Cobb said nothing and continued to stare at the pictures on the wall. They were mostly of Thornton in various guises, in what appeared to be a number of foreign countries, shaking hands with some Very Famous People. Once again Cobb wondered about Thornton’s past but knew he wouldn’t get anywhere if he asked him, so he put the thought aside and sipped his wine.
‘What are you up to today?’ asked Thornton.
‘I thought I’d go down to the Dancing Ferret, they’ve got a beer drinking contest on today,’ replied Cobb.
‘Do you think you’ll win?’
‘When you take part in a sporting event like that Thornton, it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose … it’s how drunk you get that counts.’
Thornton brought the freshly cooked sausages to the table on two plates accompanied by masses of bread and butter and they both sat down to eat.
Thornton filled up the glasses again and they tucked into their lunch with gusto (or maybe it was relish … it was that thick, dark, chunky stuff, anyway). But they ate in an uneasy silence.
When they had finished, Thornton took the plates away, returned to the table and lit a cigar. Cobb, who didn’t smoke, stared silently into his glass. They sat quietly for a few moments, Thornton stroking his Van Dyke beard as he studied Cobb.
‘Esme wouldn’t like what you’ve become, you know,’ said Thornton, gently.
‘If she was here now, I wouldn’t be like this,’ replied Cobb.
‘Look, Esme was killed in that accident. Okay, it shouldn’t have happened and I curse the Gods that it did but we have to go on,’ said Thornton. ‘I do understand what you are going through, you know. In my life I have lost both my wife and my daughter. No parent should have to bury their children, there is something fundamentally wrong with that in nature. But unfortunately, for those of us who are left behind, life goes on and we have to deal with it, however painful that may be.’
‘So, what are you saying, I should get a hobby?’ said Cobb.
‘No, you should get a life! Or at least get back the one you threw away. If you think giving up the police force and trying to drink yourself to death is the only answer, you should think again.’
‘Depends what the question is, I suppose.’
‘You were one of the brightest stars in the police force, an inspector by the age of thirty-four. Then you just went to pieces after Esme’s death. That’s why they threw you out.’
‘There were differences about policy decisions. I left on principle.’
‘You were thrown out because you started risking your life and the lives of your men on dangerous stunts. Nobody in their right mind leads a charge on a house full of armed men when all you have are truncheons to defend yourselves.’
‘That was a dangerous hostage situation, people’s lives were in danger! The point is we resolved the situation.’
‘Yes but two of your men were injured. And then there was that time you arrested that big fellow in Kensington. Built like a wrestler. It took three of you to bring him down.’
‘He was a dangerous, armed robber,’ responded Cobb.
‘But you didn’t know that until you got him back to the station. You were arresting him for riding a bicycle with no lights!’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I have friends in high places,’ replied Thornton cryptically.
‘Anyway, I got a commendation for that,’ said Cobb, defensively.
‘That was only because it would have been too embarrassing for the force to discipline you.’
Cobb grudgingly asked, ‘What’s your point?’
‘You became too reckless for the force, it got so that none of your men would follow you on your Death-Wish campaign, and so they kicked you out. Then you resolved to drink yourself to death. Not made too much of a success of that either, have you?’
‘These things take time, you know. Roma wasn’t built in a day.’
‘And what are you doing now? Private detective. Lost dogs and divorce cases. You have one of the finest deductive minds I have ever come across and you waste it like this.’
Cobb shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and stared into his glass.
‘I have to say this Cobb, it’s time to pull yourself together, cut down on your drinking and make a proper detective of yourself. Esme has been gone for five years now, it is time to get over it and move on with your life. Even think about finding another woman maybe.’
‘How can you say that? She was your daughter!’ said Cobb, shocked.
‘Yes and that’s how I know it’s what Esme would have wished for you. She wouldn’t expect you to mourn her for the rest of your life. She would want you to be happy.’
‘Happy? … yes, I remember happy. Esme made me happy but I’m sorry I don’t do happy, anymore.’
‘Then I pity you. Esme’s death wasn’t your fault you know, you tried to save her.’
‘Managed to save myself though didn’t I?’ said Cobb, bitterly.
‘But you tried to save her, you can’t be blamed because she made the wrong move.’
Cobb finished his drink and stood up. ‘I should go now.’
As Cobb headed into the shop Thornton called after him, ‘Cobb … wait.’ Cobb stopped but didn’t turn around.
‘Since you married Esme you’ve become like a son to me,’ said Thornton. ‘I don’t want to have to bury you too.’
&n
bsp; Cobb didn’t respond, just headed through the shop, unlocked the door and went out into the street.
***
After leaving Thornton’s shop, Cobb wandered round the streets of Londum, not wanting to go home, mulling things over. He found himself sitting on a bench on the Embankment, looking across the River Isis towards the Houses of Parliament. On one of the hoardings along the embankment there was a recruiting poster for the Metropolitan Police, “It’s More Than Just a Job, It’s an Adventure!” it proclaimed. Cobb thought back to his time in the Met, yes it had been an adventure back then, when life had meant something to him.
The famous 18th century poet and lexicographer Samuel L. Jackson had said, ‘When a man is tired of Londum, he is tired of life’. Boy, Cobb was tired of Londum.
By the Gods, he missed Esme. She had been his life. Cobb was an orphan; both his parents had died tragically during Cobb’s birth. (Don’t ask … it’s a long story.) Esme and Thornton had become his family. So her passing was even more of a loss to him.
When she was killed by that runaway horse and carriage, his life had ended in the same moment. But he knew that he could have saved her.
From an early age, Cobb knew that he had a gift. In this strange Universe some people, even though they were not witches, practitioners of Magick, they could still do things like see the future, divine for water, predict weather, that sort of thing. Cobb was one such person; he had discovered that he had the power to see occasionally into other Universes. There was no pattern to it and it happened spontaneously but from time to time Cobb would find himself turning a corner and staring at a street scene that was not part of the world around him.
He had seen things that defied explanation, carriages that travelled along with no horses pulling them. Of course they had steam trains in Cobb’s world but these carriages were small, four wheeled things that didn’t travel on tracks. He had also seen flying vehicles and strange, tall buildings that reached to the sky. At first he thought he was going mad but occasionally they were actual “breakthroughs” from these other worlds. There were instances of people and these strange horseless carriages intruding into Cobb’s world. These incursions had been witnessed by many people, even photographed, and the worlds scientists, backed up by the world’s leading Magicians had acknowledged that there were indeed alternate Dimensions or Universes.