The Vesuvius Club

«How you wound me! The Beardsley style is so unfashionable.»

«Eat a little more!»

«I find it difficult to manage on the pittance you pay.»

The little man sniffed back a drop of moisture from his nostril. «Oh, now you’re being cruel. Your late papa would never forgive me if I let you starve.»

«Were I more at liberty, I could get by very well on my artistic commissions.»

He reached across and patted my hand. His own was dimpled fatly like that of an overfed baby. «Of course, of course. But my little problems do provide a more regular salary, eh? And not too much effort required on your part.»

I smiled, admitting his point. «Effort only in the service of pleasure.»

It may have seemed rash of them to give the job to an aberrant character like me but I cannot deny how much I relished it. The world was my studio, and they laid on the apprentices to clean the brushes. Say there was a visiting Turkish despot to be bumped off. Furnished with the dry details, the artistic part would be left to me. I’d formulate a little plan with the Domestics (Delilah, she of the daffodil frock was one of the best) and off we’d toddle. The Ottoman offender would be taking a stroll in some pleasure garden and, if the night were a dark one, a swift dagger through the ribs might be enough. I would go off on my merry way and the Domestics would move in, eradicating any trace of my presence. A day or so later, the stabbee would be found a hundred miles away (in, let us say, Newcastle-under-Lyme), the victim of a «crazed malcontent». The malcontent — usually the body of a vagrant retrieved from the local mortuary, dressed up with a dagger clasped in his rapidly stiffening digits — was sometimes found there too. Within twenty-four hours both corpses would be under-lime themselves. Oftentimes, though, something a shade more baroque was called for and Delilah and I would roll up our sleeves and embark on a coffee-fuelled plotting session that was rather cheerfully like cramming for an examination. It was all terribly well done and it lent one an immunity from even the vaguest threat of prosecution that was quite giddying. Artistic licence to kill, you might say.

Joshua Reynolds, who really was the most frightful old woman (well, no, he really was a dwarf, but you follow me?), glanced at me as I sank back against the cold lavatory wall and grinned at him. For once there was a flicker of something less pleasant in those bright black eyes.

«Enthusiasm is all very well, my dear Lucifer, but we mustn’t get sloppy, must we? We must always remember that nasty business of the Bow Road.»

I bristled at this but held my tongue. As I say, some things are painful and private.

I was a bit done in after all the evening’s excitement, but it was clear the boss had more work for me. He blew his button nose and retrieved a file from his case. As he examined its contents, I examined my fingernails. In the morning, I thought, I would take a steam bath.

«You got my note?» he said at length.

«I’m afraid I haven’t checked my correspondence. I was running late, you see, what with the murdering.»

The dwarf gazed in a puzzled fashion at the contents of his handkerchief. «Do you know Poop?»

«Poop?»

«Jocelyn Poop. Our man in Naples. We received a wire from him some days ago.»

He tossed me a square of buff paper. I read it over swiftly.

VERDIGRIS SASH. MOST URGENT.

DETAILS FOLLOW.

I looked up. «Instructions to a curtain maker?»

«Verdigris and Sash were both highly respected scientists.»

«Were?»

«They died. Within a day of each other.»

«Did they indeed?» I tapped the telegram against my chin. «And what more does Poop have to say?»

«Not a great deal. He’s vanished.»

«Like me to look into it?»

Joshua Reynolds batted his eyelids. «I’d be so grateful.»

I took a file of papers from my erstwhile employer and, with a curt nod, stepped out of the lavatory. Out of habit, I washed my hands.

Once back out into the humid night, I made my way towards Downing Street. I bade the bobby on duty outside Number Ten a cheery «goodnight» then let myself into Number Nine.

I know, ostentatious, isn’t it? But somebody has to live there.

3. The Mystery of the Two Geologists

MY occupancy of Number Nine is a long and not particularly edifying story. Once upon a time, my late papa’s people owned the land whereon Downing Street was built and though HMG grabbed most of it, they couldn’t get their mitts on that one house which, through some stubborn whimsy of the Boxes, was to remain in the family in perpetuity. And now, as last of the line, Number Nine had come to me. More than anything I wished to be shot of the place but the terms of my inheritance were strict and so impecunious old Lucifer occupied three rooms, more or less, on the ground floor of one of the grandest houses in London. The rest of the pointlessly huge edifice was shuttered, sheeted, quietly rotting and likely to remain so unless I started to sell a lot more pictures. On the positive side it was awfully handy for town.

I awoke to find myself fully dressed and on top of the bed, surrounded by a litter of files on the missing Poop and the late Professors Sash and Verdigris. I must have drifted off in either a haze of data or a haze of hashish, I really cannot recall.

I was about to call for my man Poplar, when I remembered that he had taken a bullet in the back three weeks before on the south-bound platform of a Serbian railway station (no silver cigarette case, you see). I sighed hugely. I’d certainly miss old Poplar and his passing left me in the unfortunate position of requiring a new manservant. Taking a small propelling pencil from my waistcoat pocket, I scribbled the words «Get Help» on to my shirt cuff as an aide memoir. It was to be hoped that my laundress would not interpret this as the desperate plea of a kidnapped heiress hidden amongst my evening clothes.

A manservant was one of the perks of the job, yet Joshua Reynolds seemed in no great hurry to furnish me with a new one. If things didn’t improve soon I was faced with the grisly prospect of getting in Delilah to rinse out my undergarments.

I bathed in preparation for my Turkish bath and sent a note round to one of my pals expressing the desire that he join me there. The pal in question was a fiercely handsome, unfailingly cheerful lad called Christopher Miracle. To look at, you would think him one of those fellows who go stamping off around the world in a pea-coat having peninsulas named after them. In fact, he was one of the most famous portraitists in England and was said to possess an extraordinary patience and delicacy of touch. He had not been born into wealth but had earned it (imagine!) and the gulf that existed between our financial situations resulted in the kind of slow-burning resentment that fuels the best friendships. As a result of his status, he was quite staggeringly well-connected and I had a fancy he might know something of my missing professors.

The summer day was bright as a flare and stultifyingly humid. I was hard pressed to notice any change in atmosphere between the outside and the interior of the Wigmore Street baths where I later found myself.

As blond and enthusiastic as a Labrador puppy, Christopher Miracle bounced startlingly out of the wreaths of steam and thumped me on the back as a token of his affection.

«Box, old man! How are you? Looking distinctly peaky, I’d say. You getting enough nosh?»

I made a place on the warm marble beside me. «You’re not the first to speculate.»

He extended his long legs before him, the white towel around his waist pulling as taut and neat as a tablecloth.

«Is there tea?» he cried, smoothing back a lock of wet blond hair. «I must have tea!»