Punch.
«Come,» he barked, thrusting his arm through the crook of the woman’s free elbow and pulling her past me towards the carriage, shooting back poisonous glances the whole way.
«Charmed!» I cried, doffing my boater.
The double doors swung open again, revealing Miracle.
«Hullo, Box,» he cried, rubbing together his big hands. «Come a-spying, eh?»
Without letting on how close to the mark Miracle was, I pointed my cane towards the carriage. The groom was lashing at the horses as the vehicle turned in the empty road. «Who the devil was that?»
«Ah,» grinned Miracle. «The veiled scribbler. She’s a curiosity that one. Name of Mrs Knight. Mrs Midsomer Knight.»
«A dream, is she?»
«According to one of the ladies who caught a glimpse of her in the conveniences, more of a nightmare! Poor devil. Husband might be described as something of a brute. Never lets her out in society. She hardly says a word.»
«Why the veils? Does he beat her?»
«Burnt in a fire years back, I gather.»
My friend plunged his hands into his pockets and jutted out his lip thoughtfully. «It’s a funny thing, Box, but my teaching seems to have had an adverse effect on her.»
«What do you mean?»
Miracle shrugged. «Only that she began well but of late her work has been shocking.»
«Hmm, perhaps school-mastering is not for you, after all. And, Miracle before you fill me in on the nefarious secrets of our missing professors, you should know that you cannot afford to be so ineffective. I took your advice. I now have a pupil of my own!»
We spent the rest of the morning ensconced in Miracle’s studio drinking far too much and smoking a brace of cigars. His place was quite lovely, possessing a domed glass roof that let summer sunshine flood the pale green walls. Shadier nooks housed Miracle’s superabundance of landscapes (I abhor landscapes) and still lifes (the Frenchies call them
As the day wore on, and we began to radiate a mildly tipsy bonhomie, I allowed him to prise out of me the story of Miss Pok.
«You sly dog,» grinned Miracle. «What is she like?»
I waved a hand extravagantly. «A delight. Captivating. I was thinking of inviting her to your party. Hope you don’t mind.»
«Mind? I cannot wait to meet this paragon.»
«You must promise to behave now, Christopher.» I smoked my cigar contentedly. «You’ll think me foolish, I know, but there is something very particular about her. Uncommon.»
«Such as?»
«Well, she drinks vermouth in the afternoons and has no fear of being in a gentleman’s company unchaperoned.»
«Ten a penny at the Cafe Royal.»
«
«Pooh! She pays for her
«Perhaps.»
«Do I detect more than the usual predatory instinct at work, Box?» cried Miracle. «Can it be — never! You have fallen for her?»
I did not look him in the eye.
Miracle smiled. «I shall refrain from tormenting you further. Now! It is high time to get down to something like business.»
«I suppose so,» I sighed. «What have you to tell me?»
Miracle sat forward in his chair. «Professors Verdigris and Sash were at the same Cambridge college between and. Star pupils of their intake, it seems, along with two others.»
«Let me guess. One of them was Emmanuel Quibble?»
«Quite so! How did you—?»
«I have sources of my own,» I smiled. «The other?»
«Chap called Morraine. Maxwell Morraine.»
I nodded thoughtfully. Was this the fourth man in the photograph?
Miracle leant back on the dark red leather. «Their chosen field was something rather bewildering to do with the molten core of the earth. They formed some kind of research team. Went out to Italy.»
«Italy, eh? And did they call themselves anything?»
«Hm?»
«The Verdigris Collective. Something like that.»
Miracle shook his head. «Not as far as I know.»
«Do you know what happened to… what-do-you-call-him? Morraine?»
«Apparently he went mad and died out there. Quibble, of course, rose to great heights.»
«Indeed. Terribly hard to get an audience with the old man, from what I hear.»
«Oh, nigh on impossible. Lives in Naples, I gather. Practically a recluse.»
«Hm. I know you won’t let me down.»
Miracle gave a little laugh. «There’s a limit to what strings even I can pull, old man.»
«Nonsense. I have the utmost faith in your ability to flatter the most Doric pillars of society to their very capitals. I can be in Italy for — what shall we say? Next Thursday?»
7. The Verdigris Mausoleum
I RETURNED to Downing Street to find a communication from the Domestics. The firm of Tom Bowler, Belsize Park, was apparently engaged in an unusual amount of activity at the dockside. Enquiries suggested that the firm specialized in the repatriation of Englishmen and Italians who had died abroad. Coffins were shipped over in packing crates (intrinsically valuable, it seemed, as they were returned, empty, to the point of egress, namely the port of Naples). I determined to have another nocturnal poke around, this time at the undertaker’s and, after sobering myself up with a pot of coffee, put on a black suit with a waistcoat of burnt-orange to do so. I stepped out into Whitehall where Delilah was drawing up in the firm’s cab. For the purpose, she had traded in her signature yellow frock for a cabby’s coat and gaiters.
«Evening, Mr Box, hand where is we hoff to?»
I gave the Belsize Park address and we were away.
As we clattered along, I pressed my face to the window and closed my eyes. Night had come and the air was sickly with a yellow smog that covered the city like some monstrous slug-trail.
I tried to make sense of recent curious events. All clues pointed to Naples. Poop had died there and had foreseen catastrophic events. It was the place where that mysterious crate of Mr Bowler had been destined, the place where Sir Emmanuel Quibble, last survivor of the Cambridge Four was now in residence. But what would I find when I got there?
I was jerked from my reverie by the sudden acceleration of the cab. Rapping on the ceiling, I was answered by the Delilah’s heavy features peering down at me through the hatch.
«Beg, pardon, sir,» she wheezed. «Hi believe we his being followed.»
I pulled at the heavy leather strap of the window and peered out. I had no clear idea of where we were but could just make out the silhouette of another cab, swaying alarmingly as it juddered around the corner.
«How long has this been going on?» I demanded.
Delilah coughed into her grubby collar. I could just catch the glint of the street lamps in her eyes as she swivelled round to look back at our pursuers.
«Couple ha mile, sir. Hi’ve tried to throw ’im off the track but hit hain’t no good.»
