I ducked from his fist and managed to land a serious wallop on the side of his head. He staggered and almost fell on the treacherous floor.
«Bringer of light, I assure you!» I cried. My blood was up and so were my fists as I circled the monster. «Lucifer was the brightest and most beautiful of the angels. Till that old margery of a deity got so jealous that he cast him out!»
He snarled at this and succeeded in punching me, with sickening force, in the ribs.
Crying out in pain, I dropped, winded. My knees smacking on the floor with a snap like wish-bones.
The fellow stalked up to me and grasped a great hunk of my hair. «Bringer of light! What have you brought to my household but misery and scandal? My God, sir, I shall thrash the life out of you before I’m done!»
I shook my head miserably. «Who… who are you?»
He sneered at me, his moustaches hanging limply around his red mouth like those of a Chinaman. «I am Pugg, sir. Major Strangeways Pugg.»
«Oh,» I said, simply.
«And it is my daughter, my sweet little Avril who you have despoiled and ruined!»
I winced as he tightened his grip on my hair. Remembrance swept over me like cold water from the Turk’s brass bowl. A party, some months previously. Whey-faced poets, frayed-cuffed artists; all the splendid flotsam of bohemian London life. And a girl. A girl with a dog’s name and the body of a goddess. Avril Pugg. There’d been a balcony, starlight, whispered words then something very cheeky in the rhododendrons.
Now there was a father. He raised his great fist and drew it back. I watched it swing towards me through streaming eyes.
Then there came a strange, bright clang and Pugg crashed to the floor, his addled eyes rolling up in his head like those of a doll.
I looked up and saw my friend standing over the unconscious major, a filigreed Turkish tea-urn still swinging in his right hand.
«Miracle,» I groaned.
«Too bloody right!» he cried, grasping my hand and pulling me to my feet.
4. The Visitor
THAT night, still as humid as the steam-rooms, I swaddled my bruised carcass in a Japanese dressing gown patterned with embroidered sunflowers and purchased with money I should have spent on oil-paints. Or food. Or tickets to the Continent avoiding enraged fathers.
After leaving the baths, Miracle had seen me right then I had swiftly made contact with the Domestics. Delilah, always the soul of discretion, assured me that, although it didn’t come quite within the purview of Joshua Reynolds’s department, she would «sort fings out» and Major Strangeways Pugg would be «hencouraged» to drop the matter forthwith. Well, it’s pointless having power unless you can abuse it, don’t you think?
I then wrapped up the portrait of the Hon. Everard Supple (a present for his grieving family) and began to ponder Chris Miracle’s suggestion of giving art instruction. He was making a killing off all these lonely old horrors in need of a little thrill to while away their afternoons. Why shouldn’t I? In fact, why shouldn’t I
The upshot was I placed a small advertisement in
I then engaged a char to spruce up Downing Street. I had intended to supervise her work but couldn’t bear the looks of disapproval and endless 'tsk-tsk’s as she peeled old collars and unwashed dishes from the debris of my studio, so off I went to invest money I didn’t have in new curtains. I collected some interesting bric-a-brac that my pupils might find amusing to draw and added Everard Supple’s glass eye to the pile as a little touch of the Gothic.
After that, with rather impressive zeal, I assumed the disguise of a dour-faced newspaperman (all it takes is a dreadful suit, bowler and false moustache) and called at the home of the late Professor Eli Verdigris in Holland Park.
It was a house plunged into mourning; black crepe blossoming from every niche and banister, a wreath of some stinking violet flower encircling friend Miracle’s rather bad portrait of the great man. He had indeed been a corpulent fellow with curious wide-apart eyes and a dimpled chin of such prominence that he resembled a Hapsburg.
Under the pretence of preparing a eulogy of the professor for the
«I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me,» said a tall young man, as fat as his father, ushering me into a chair. «My poor mama is quite beside herself.»
«It was very unexpected, then?» I whispered, laying on the sympathy as thick as impasto.
«Entirely.» He rubbed absently at the black arm-band around his sleeve. «My father has not had a day’s illness in his life.»
I nodded and scribbled in a little note-book. «The doctors’ opinion?»
Verdigris Junior shrugged. «They seem at something of a loss. A seizure of some kind followed by coma and… well… death.»
«Dear me. The
The young fellow sniffed and looked up at me. «Everyone has been quite marvellous, though. The family. His colleagues and friends.»
«And the funeral…?»
«The day before yesterday. It was… well… It is over now.»
I gave him a sad smile. «Could you give me some idea of the nature of your father’s work?»
Verdigris’s mouth tugged downwards. «Not really, I’m afraid. Frightful dunce where papa’s stuff is concerned. I can root out some literature for you, if you’d care to wait.»
«That would be most helpful, sir.»
Whilst he was out, I made a quick inspection of the fire-grate and the desk. There was no evidence of anything being burnt in the grate but on the desk I spotted a large appointments diary. I flicked hastily through the pages. What was I looking for? Well, anything out of the common, I suppose. But I found nothing save evidence of Verdigris’s dreary affairs and the rest of the study proved equally barren. The walls were lined with books and very indifferent landscapes in need of cleaning. I closed the diary carefully, brushed off a dusty purplish residue from the desk that had adhered to my sleeve and dashed back to my chair.
Young Verdigris came back in and handed me a thick, dust-jacketed volume. «Here is it. Papa’s magnum opus. Tried my damnedest to get into it but…»
I turned the book over and looked at the spine. The title was picked out in gold.
Sans moustache, I lunched in the domino room at the Cafe Royal, studying the coroner’s report on the deaths of both men. There were no traces of toxins. Nothing at all to indicate that death had not been due to some freak seizure. But what connection was Poop’s telegram driving at? And why had Poop himself disappeared?
I resumed my disguise as Fleet Street’s finest and took an underground train to meet the wife of Professor Frederick Sash, the second of the late scientists. I had tried to make some sense of Verdigris’s book but could not get on with it. It seemed terrible nonsense, or terribly clever.
Mrs Sash, a good-looking piece with a swan-like neck, received me graciously enough, although she had the infuriating habit of cutting one off in mid-sentence. As I sipped my tea, I glanced around the darkened drawing room. «I see you have a copy of Verdigris’s seminal
