Moon’s disappointment was palpable. “Oh.”
The Somnambulist gave him a discreet pat on the back and Moon brightened a little at the gesture. “May I ask… who did it?”
Merryweather laughed again, another tremendous
A gaggle of uniformed policemen strode past, escorting a tall, soberly dressed gentleman in handcuffs. He had shifty eyes and was muttering bitterly under his breath. When he passed the inspector, he spat theatrically on the ground.
Merryweather gave the man a jocular wave and clapped Moon on the back. “I should worry about it. Believe me, it wasn’t worthy of you. It was too ordinary. Predictable and… what’s the word? Formulaic.”
“I’m bored, Inspector. I need a diversion.”
“The lads and me are going to the pub to celebrate. Care to join us?”
Moon sniffed. “Not today. We’ve a show to do.”
“Well, then. I’m sure we’ll meet again before long.”
“Perhaps.”
Merryweather looked nervously toward the Somnambulist. “Goodbye.”
The giant waved and the inspector strode back toward his men, palpably relieved.
“We should leave,” Moon said gloomily. “We’re redundant here.”
They started back toward the theatre, the detective silent and lost in contemplation.
“I think it’s gone,” he said at last. “I had a bit of talent once but I think it’s vanished.”
The giant did his best to cheer him up.
UNLUCKEE
“P’raps my time’s past. That’s all. I’ve gone to seed.”
The Somnambulist gave him a glum smile.
“I need something more. Something… gothic and bizarre. Like the old days.”
A sudden gust of wind sent a flurry of litter eddying around them, entangling a single sheet of yesterday’s
HORRIBLE MURDER!
HAM ACTOR THROWN FROM TOWER!
POLICE BAFFLED!
But so caught up was he in his introspection that the detective didn’t even notice. He screwed the paper up into a ball, tossed it over his shoulder and trudged forlornly on.
Chapter 5
Edward Moon was bored.
He had been smoking for hours, lying stretched out on the couch in a corner of his study, enveloped by the tobacco fog which blanketed the room, thick and suffocating as a nicotine peasouper. He yawned and extended a languorous arm for another cigarette.
Mrs. Grossmith bustled in, a half-glimpsed figure amongst the fug. “Mr. Moon?” she asked in a querulous voice which suggested that she stood in her usual posture of disapproval, hands on hips. The atmosphere was too hazy to be certain, but from his long experience of the woman, Moon thought this entirely likely.
“Bored again?”
“I’m afraid so.” He lit the cigarette and settled back into the couch. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You get bored,” the housekeeper said sternly, “the way other men get the clap.”
Moon gave a thin-lipped smile. “Very good.”
“You’ll have to stop smoking in here. Given that we live in a house without windows, I absolutely refuse to tolerate it a moment longer. You’ll poison us all if you carry on like this. You’re a positive menace.”
The conjuror blew out a long gray stream of smoke. “You’re not the first to have said so. But I must confess that coming from you it stings a little more.”
“Be reasonable.”
Ruefully, he stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette and got to his feet. “No doubt you’re right. Besides, I think I’m starting to get bored with ennui.”
Mrs. Grossmith snorted disapprovingly. “You’re quite impossible when you’re like this.”
“And you’re a saint to put up with me.”
“Can’t you get out? Go for a walk. Take some air.”
Moon seemed unconvinced but Grossmith persisted. “It’d do you good. This atmosphere can’t be healthy.” She gave a phlegmy, melodramatic cough.
“Perhaps I shall go out for a while.”
Mrs. Grossmith sounded pleased. “You can’t expect a mystery every week.”
“Can’t I?” Moon looked disappointed, like a child on Christmas morning who wakes to find his stocking filled only with a farthing and a bruised orange. “You know, I long for a world where violent crime is so commonplace that I’m kept in constant employment.”
“A strange wish.”
He sighed. “Not that villainy is what it was. The age of the truly great criminal is past. Since Barabbas… Mediocrity, Mrs. Grossmith. Mediocrity as far as the eye can see. A case in point: You remember the robber the Somnambulist and I foiled a couple of years ago? The man who’d planned to burrow his way into the Bank of England but ended up digging into the sewers instead?”
“I remember, sir.”
“His name escapes me at present. Can you recall it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You see? Forgettable. All of them — to a man — forgettable.”
Mrs. Grossmith forced a smile. “This boredom will pass, sir. It usually does.”
“Yes,” Moon almost whispered to himself. “I know the remedy.”
“You’re going for a stroll, then?”
“That’s right. For a stroll.”
Moon walked away and Grossmith heard him move through the house, trotting spryly up the hidden steps, past the rhododendrons, out onto the street.
The Somnambulist ambled in from the kitchen, an enormous jug of milk in one hand. He gave Mrs. Grossmith a quizzical look and gesticulated a brief message.
“Where’s he gone?” she asked. “Is that what you mean?”
The giant nodded solemnly.
She sighed. “I think we both know the answer to that.”
The Somnambulist did not reply but, head sunk low onto chest, milk cradled to his bosom, made his way mournfully back toward the kitchen.
After exchanging a few slurred words with Mr. Speight (who had wedged himself into what looked like a surprisingly comfortable position on the steps), Moon left the Theatre of Marvels and headed toward a disreputable district of the city, well known to him and to those others who shared his regrettable predilections. It was a route he knew by heart and he covered the distance in less than an hour, having no desire to hail a cab. He needed this time alone to prepare himself. Indeed, so intent was he on his journey that he entirely failed to notice that for its final fifteen minutes he was most expertly followed.
His destination was a dilapidated flat at the end of an alley a few minutes’ walk from Goodge Street, in that unprepossessing area of the city still a decade or so away from being known as “Fitzrovia.” The shutters of the place were tightly drawn but an enticing glow escaped at their edges. Looking quickly about him to make certain he was alone, Moon knocked six times in a precisely ordered pattern. As he waited, he was certain that hidden eyes were watching him from the other side of the door, and felt a profoundly uncomfortable conviction that somewhere
