The Abominable Showman

  The walls of the count’s palatial bed chamber were enriched by several delightful frescos which had until recently graced the walls of the Sun King’s summer residence. These had been a hasty gift to the count from the French prime minister.

  The carpet came from Axminster and the doorknob from Dockerills in Brighton.

  ‘Get a decent welcoming party together,’ the count said to Atters. ‘A couple of hundred or so, to cheer Professor Mandlebrot when he escorts Our Lady of Space down the ramp of The Pilgrim. And get that Cecil Beaton chap to bring his box Brownie and capture the occasion for posterity.’

  ‘Would you like John “Boy” Betjeman to read out one of his poems?’

  ‘Not so sure of that,’ said the count. ‘What was that twaddle he read to us last night all about?’

  ‘It’s part of an ongoing project. For the Poppette to sing at the grand ball.’

  ‘Ah yes indeed,’ said Count Rostov.

  ‘Hammurabi,’ said Atters.

  ‘No need to be rude,’ said the count.

  ‘No, the part of the poem, it went –’

  ‘Hamm-u-rabi

  He had a horse, but never won the Derby.

  He liked his sushi, but without wasabi.

  Hamm-u-rabi.’

  ‘What utter rot,’ said Count Rostov. ‘I despair for this avant garde poetry. Give me Little Tich singing a song about his over-sized footwear, or some music hall floozy banging out a lot of double entendres while kicking her legs in the air, any old day of the week.’

  ‘We have so much in common,’ said Atters. ‘I feel we will both enjoy our working partnership.’

  ‘I do so agree,’ Count Rostov put on his bearskin hat. ‘Now kindly fetch me my riding crop, so I can give you a thorough thrashing for being late with my breakfast.’

  ‘Oooh, jolly good show,’ said Atters, ‘britches on, or britches off, do you think?’

  Lady Agnes Rutherford had her riding britches on. As a lady should whilst riding on a pony. She rode this day upon a dappled mare that went by the name of Mr Frisky Whiskers.

  At her side rode Sir Jonathan Crawford, astride a large black stallion which rejoiced in the moniker of Balberith.

  They trotted, sometimes cantered, sometimes jauntily frisked (Lady Agnes’ mount was particularly good at this) along and about the full-size replica of Rotten Row that had been created atop The Leviathan, before the great glass house, but under similar cover beneath the stars.

  ‘Stirs queer thoughts,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford, ‘to ride here, seemingly in Hyde Park, yet beneath the soaring canopy of space.’

  ‘You are quite the poet, sir,’ the Lady Agnes said.

  ‘I have dabbled in the muse,’ the lord admitted. ‘But I am more a man of action than of words.’

  ‘But there are two sides to your personality,’ said Lady Agnes Rutherford.

  ‘That I am half Venusian too,’ his lordship nodded his head. Within his cranium Berty the beetroot stirred.

  ‘What are we doing now?’ he asked his host.

  ‘Taking the air with a beautiful woman,’ whispered Sir Jonathan Crawford.

  ‘Next stop the bedchamber then,’ said Berty. ‘I’m going back to sleep.’

  ‘Lady Agnes,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘Do you have knowledge of, and conversation with, your holy guardian angel?’

  ‘Wilhemena Walnut,’ said her ladyship. ‘We tend to differ on certain moral issues.’

  ‘And do you have an interest in astrology?’

  ‘I am a woman,’ said Lady Agnes. ‘So when not cooing over kittens and baking bread, I naturally study my horoscope in the daily papers with a gullible naivety that gentlemen find most appealing.’

  ‘You mock me madam,’ his lordship said. ‘It was a serious question.’

  ‘Then the answer is no,’ said her ladyship. ‘I consider myself a modern woman. I have no time for superstitious nonsense.’

  ‘There may be a little more to it than that,’ Sir Jonathan gave his mount a pat, at the place where its face met its neck, or thereabouts. ‘I overheard a conversation yesterday. Between the three owls.’

  Her ladyship laughed. ‘Was Jolson telling tales of his days as a cotton-picking slave?’

  ‘He is presently affiliated to the cult of Jah Rastafari.’

  ‘Priceless,’ said her ladyship.

  ‘The magician Crowley was holding forth.’

  ‘A rascal and a scoundrel,’ said her ladyship.

  ‘And also Count Rostov’s spiritual advisor. He spoke of the Satya Yuga and the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. I took myself to the ship’s library. It is reckoned to contain the largest collection of occult literature in existence. My studies yielded curious information.’

  ‘I am intrigued,’ said her ladyship.

  ‘It appears,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘That some great cosmic event is destined to occur during this coming Summer solstice.’

  ‘Which is tomorrow,’ Lady Agnes said.

  ‘A certain planetary alignment will occur. All manner of mystical how’s-your-fathers seem destined to coincide. Something, how should I put this, apocalyptic.’

  ‘And all on the day of the Queen’s Double Sapphire Jubilee?’

  ‘The date of which is apparently of great import to those with a head for the magical arts and the love of a meaningful number.’

  ‘Which ties up with this business of Rostov supposedly being schooled in sorcery by a rogue Venusian magician.’

  ‘There is no doubt that Venusians are skilled in the magical arts.’

  ‘Do you possess any such skills?’ asked Lady Agnes.

  ‘Other than those of a tantric nature, no.’

  ‘But clearly you believe that all the mystical mumbo jumbo is of some significance.’

  ‘The point might well be, does Rostov believe it? My conclusion would be yes and that whatever the big something is that he might well be planning, that big something will occur on the Summer solstice with Queen Victoria and leaders of many nations, Earth and otherwise, aboard.’

  ‘Then we must renew our efforts to destroy Count Rostov.’

  ‘I consider that a waste of time,’ Sir Jonathan said.

  Lady Agnes gave Mr Frisky Whiskers a pat on the place where its flank met its fetlock. ‘That is a curious thing to say,’ she said.

  ‘How many attempts have you now made?’ Sir Jonathan asked.

  Lady Agnes counted on her fingers and said, ‘Six.’

  ‘One more than I,’ his lordship said. ‘But all to equal failure.’

  ‘Then are you under the belief that Count Rostov has tasted of the Elixir of Life? Or that magical spells protect him?’

  ‘If it looks like a kipper, and smells like a kipper,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘It probably is a kipper. Or in this case a haddock, magically disguised as a kipper. Or indeed a halibut.’

  ‘And if you are right, the solution would be?’

  ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief,’ Sir Jonathan winked as he spoke. ‘We must employ the services of a magician. One of proven skills and evil reputation. One who would not be above murder if monetary remuneration favoured such action.’

  ‘You speak of course of Mr Aleister Crowley.’

  ‘Heavens no!’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘I speak of Mr Jolson.’

  32

  ‘Aph-ro-di-te

  She rather upset those in high society

  By dancing round the place without her nightie.

  Aph-ro-di-te.’

  John ‘Boy’ Betjeman rose from the breakfasting table, took a bit of a bow and then sat down again.

  Lord Binky Hartington took to shaking his head.

  Carrington Hanky-Panky-Poo took sugar with his Corn Flakes.

  The honourable Crichton took a leaf out of his mother’s book and had Bran Flakes, because of the roughage.

  The poet arose once more, took another bow and then sat down again.

  Lord Binky Hartington said, ‘Someone pass the gold top.’

&n
bsp; ‘Come on chaps,’ the poet cried. ‘I call that Aphrodite.’

  ‘It’s rubbish,’ said Binky.

  ‘Pants,’ said he of the Sussex Panky-Poos.

  ‘Not one of your best,’ said the honourable Crichton. ‘And where is Atters, this morning?’

  ‘He’s taken the job of minion in residence for Count Rostov,’ said Binky. ‘Which doesn’t bode well for the count.’

  ‘He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t change his will in Atters’ favour,’ said the poet, gracefully accepting artistic defeat.

  ‘The count did that last night,’ said Binky. ‘Whilst drunk on vodka. Atters was paying.’

  ‘Chap’s a bit of a bounder,’ said John ‘Boy’ Betjemen. ‘Not a gent, like the rest of us here, don’t you agree?’

  ‘A veritable swodger,’ said the honourable Crichton.

  ‘Less of a swodger than a treacle-tower,’ said Binky.

  Which drew forth certain laughter round the table.

  The table was in the White Star Breakfast Buffet and Grill. Once more adorned by be-blazered and breakfasting toffs. Toffs who had risen early for a change. And for a purpose.

  ‘Looking forward to meeting this Lady of Space,’ said Binky Hartington. ‘Get the impression she’s some dizzy flapper from Alpha Centauri, or some such.’

  ‘I heard a goddess, like Aphrodite,’ said the honourable Crichton. ‘So hopefully no nightie and no knickers.’

  ‘I read,’ said John ‘Boy’ Betjeman, ‘that she is an aspect of the Blessed Virgin Mary. So perhaps best drop the talk of knickers.’

  ‘Well, she’s due at ten,’ said Binky. ‘So best bib and tucker. I shall be wearing my tweeds.’

  ‘Plus fours or straight trews?’ asked the honourable.

  ‘Plus fours I think. I have a rather dapper pair of shooting socks that I took the precaution of having had blessed by the Pope.’

  ‘Is the Pope here yet?’ asked Carrington.

  Binky Hartington shook his head. ‘You’d have heard him if he’d arrived,’ he said. ‘You know the ruckus he makes when he’s out of the Vatican.’

  ‘He is a little loud,’ said the Panky-Poo. ‘But terribly amusing when he does that foolish dance.’

  Laughter signalled general agreement.

  ‘The Dalai Lama’s coming too,’ said Binky. ‘So sparks will fly if those two meet in the bar.’

  ‘Who else is expected?’ asked the honourable Crichton. ‘I hear there’s quite a list of celebrity guests.’

  ‘A lot of Yankees,’ said Binky Hartington. ‘Millionaires like Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie and Ford. And stars of the silver screen, Jane Harlow, Greta Garbo, Rudolph Valentino, Fatty Arbuckle, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy too.’

  ‘Splendid stuff,’ said Panky-Poo. ‘And all taking flight today, I suppose, from the Royal London Spaceport.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Binky. ‘We don’t call it that anymore.’

  ‘We don’t?’ asked the honourable Crichton. ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because the spaceport at Sydenham is changing its name today as part of the celebrations. From now on it will be known as Her Majesty Victoria’s Astrodome.’

  ‘Hardly rolls off the tongue, does it?’ said Boy Betjeman. ‘I could have come up with something much more poetic, I have some verses that I wrote about the Martian space drive system. Let me see if I can remember how they go. Ah yes –’

  There was a great deal of bunting at Her Majesty Victoria’s Astrodome. As indeed there was throughout the capital city of the glorious British Empire.

  Ah London.

  That great metropolis.

  The Metropolis, featured in Fritz Lang’s movie Metropolis. A movie that would receive its Royal Premier this very evening aboard The Leviathan.

  London had never looked more imposing or more regal. The vast sky towers with their swirling motorways and skudding airships. Everywhere, it seemed, fluttered the red, white and blue of the Union Flag. Pasted onto walls and windows, picked in lights above Trafalgar Square. Badges on bonnets of babies. Shirt-fronts and bow ties, bowlers and boaters. Frocks and feminine fripperies.

  Grenadiers on Horse Guards Parade bedecked with pennants. Marching bands and children’s choirs and folk of the British Empire. Burly men of Russian stock, fancy boys from Finland, ladies of Lhasa and girls of the Ganges Delta. And here a Venusian, tall and pale amidst the cheering crowds and here too the Jovians, somewhat already taken with drink, heartily giving all to the celebrations.

  The weather was fine, the sky above blue and in her bedroom at Buckingham Palace the Queen was reading the papers.

  ‘One finds one’s self once more in the headlines,’ said the monarch. ‘Which frankly makes quite a change for one.’

  ‘How so, one’s loved-one of one?’ asked Albert, still alert and frolicsome, considering his age.

  ‘Because,’ said Her Majesty, tapping at a headline with the dinkiest of digits. ‘The press have seemed for months to have had nothing more to write about but the singular exploits of this Lady Raygun character.’

  ‘Ah,’ Albert nodded. ‘I had quite forgotten about her.’ He hadn’t. For how could he? The glamorous Lady Raygun had most of the capital’s gentlemen in a frenzy of conjecture. She had appeared, as from nowhere, nearly five months earlier at the New Year celebrations.

  At a society ball in Clarence House, a fancy dress ball where at first her striking attire had been assumed to be the costume of some mythical Amazon huntress. The armoured brass corset, the short leather sectioned skirt. The high-heeled boots and wristbands. The gas mask added a curious touch, but the toffs found it appealing. The holstered ray gun too, had a certain something.

  It was upon the stroke of midnight that she fell upon Lord George Farringdon-Carstairs. Drawing her weapon and atomising his kneecaps. As a horrified titled crowd looked on, she then ritually disembowelled him there on the carpet.

  She had torn a key from his waistcoat, prior to the actual disembowelment and flung it to young Prince Edward who was looking on, taking pictures with his new box Brownie.

  Her voice, though muffled by her mask was heard to say –

  ‘Now go and search his cellar.’

  The imprisoned women they found there had a tale of horror to tell. Lord George Farringdon-Carstairs had been a monster.

  And that was just the first of it.

  She had cut a bloody swathe through high society’s corrupt elite. Those who formally considered themselves above and beyond the law.

  Albert had taken pleasure in her gory antics.

  Her Majesty was most put out, however.

  ‘That bloody woman,’ as she called Lady Raygun, ‘is wiping out most of my family.’

  ‘She’s been quiet of late,’ said Albert, strapping on his mechanical leg and pushing his artificial eye into its brass-bound socket. ‘Perhaps she’s gone on her holidays. Hopefully to France.’

  ‘That Digby Barton of Scotland Yard promised one that he would have that bloody woman at the end of a rope before one’s Jubilee.’

  ‘I understand that Barton is aboard The Leviathan,’ said Albert, gluing on his prosthetic nose with the special gum provided. ‘I’ll have a word with him this evening, as soon as we are aboard.’

  ‘One is certainly looking forward to the celebrations,’ said her Majesty. ‘Count Ilya Rostov is the greatest showman alive. If he cannot host a celebration beano, one cannot imagine who could.’

  ‘One is right about that for certain,’ said Albert. ‘Now does anyone know where I put my willy? I need to do a wee wee.’

  ‘I will wee wee myself,’ I said to Barry. ‘I can’t hold it in much longer.’

  ‘We’re nearly there, chief, we’re nearly there. Look in the distance, you can see the Earth.’

  Sophia Poppette gazed down upon the planet Earth. A planet upon which she had never set foot. A blue world of mostly mystery to her, although she knew it from many many books.

  The Poppette sat alone on the floor
of the ballroom. A ballroom considered by many to be one of the greatest triumphs of modern engineering. A ballroom with a floor of crystal glass, five hundred feet in diameter. Upon which Queen Victoria would dance on the following night.

  A night when the Poppette would sing for the royal lady, to the accompaniment of Louis Armstrong’s Orchestra.

  Sophia Poppette held sheets of paper. Typed upon by the Remington of John ‘Boy’ Betjeman. The Poppette glanced at a random verse and read from it aloud:

  ‘Queen Victoria

  Her husband Albert knobbed my great aunt Gloria.

  She said his piercing filled her with Euphoria.

  Queen Victoria.’

  ‘And I’m not singing that,’ said Sophia Poppette.

  Count Rostov was singing a song of his own. It was called ‘The Kiss of the Whip on a Perfumed Bottom’. Atters tried to sing along with the chorus. The count kept time by beating Atters with his whip.

  ‘You are very privileged,’ said the count, when he’d finished his song. ‘As my minion, you are singled out for beatings. Unlike the rest of my employees. You see I generally only hire little boys. Because they rarely, if ever, let me down.’

  ‘I had heard that,’ said Atters, gingerly rubbing his unperfumed bottom. ‘The boys of the Rostov Youth Movement.’

  ‘My little chumrades. Grooming them for greatness,’ said the count. ‘Well one in particular. One aboard The Pilgrim.’

  ‘Special boy is it?’ said Atters.

  ‘None more special! You will be very surprised.’

  ‘Not much surprises me,’ said Atters. ‘Seen the look of surprise on quite a few faces though. My aunt Lilly. Famous example. How my poisonous snake escaped from its cage I’ll never know. Ghastly business, really, ghastly business.’

  ‘You will be surprised,’ said Count Ilya Rostov. ‘You and all the race of Man, will know surprise and awe.’

  ‘Sounds like cracking fun,’ said Atters. ‘Do tell.’