Mark Gatiss - The Vesuvius Club

«Well, she drinks vermouth in the afternoons and has no fear of being in a gentleman’s company unchaperoned.»

«Ten a penny at the Café Royal.»

« Touché . But she pays to be with me.»

«Pooh! She pays for her lessons , not your company!»

«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?»

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.»

I dragged the window upwards with a firm tug. «Do what you can then.»

«Righto, sir,» she answered brightly, relishing the challenge. «I could try to — look hout!»

I was conscious of a loud report from outside the cab, as though someone had stepped heavily on the surface of a frozen pond.

«What is it?» I demanded, peering upwards.

Delilah spluttered as though mortally offended. «’E bloody well shot hat hus, sir!»

This sounded a bit much. What murderous thug had I attracted now? I pressed my nose to the glass and did a quick reconnoitre as we rattled furiously along. I thought briefly of leaping from the carriage and taking Delilah’s place but instead turned my head to address her once more.

«On, then!» I cried. «Anywhere. Lose him!»

As the hatch thumped back into place, Delilah whipped up the horse with a mixture of endearments and obscenities. We lurched forward with renewed vigour and I was flung against the dark leather. As we tottered leftwards, the cab’s wheels gave an horrendous squeal and bumped twice over the kerb.

I tore off my coat and scrabbled at the lining, popping the excellent stitches (how that hurt me!) to reveal the small pistol I knew the Tailoring Domestics had concealed there.

Rocked back and forth by the motion of the carriage, I dropped on to my knees and placed the gun on the floor. In the queasy atmosphere of summer-fret and gas-light, the gun’s barrel-less body glowed like a silverfish. I grabbed at my left boot and swiftly removed the long, slim tube secreted in its own compartment within the elasticated side.

As carefully as I could, the cab bucking over the cobbles, I screwed the tube on to the front of the pistol. Within moments, I was in possession of a very effective, long-range weapon.

Delilah’s muffled curses and whip-cracks rang out sharply as I rammed down the window with my elbow and leaned out over the sill.

Behind us, the other cab, seemingly all of a piece with its driver, materialized like a ghostly ship. I could see nothing clearly, merely a suggestion of bowler hat and ulster. Then our pursuer’s hand flew up, there came a yellowy flash and the report of a gun.

I ducked back into the cab and then levelled my own pistol, loosing off a couple of shots as we careered over a crossroads, almost colliding with a third cab. There were garbled shouts of protest, the whinny of horses, but we tore on past, street-lamps blurring like phantom dandelion clocks.

The pursuing cabman fired twice more, the crack-crack of his pistol swamped by the dense curtain of fog.

Suddenly, my cab smacked against the pavement and I was tossed to the floor of the carriage. I swore as my leg scraped the rough surface and I felt the fabric of my trousers rend. Struggling to right myself as we reeled ahead, I managed to get one barked knee on to the seat and, leaning up, pushed open the hatch in the ceiling.

«Try to keep us steady» I began, then pulled myself up to peer through the hole. Delilah had sunk back, her corpulent face a mask of agony. She gripped her chest with a gloved hand.

«’E got me, sir!» she gasped, then suddenly pitched sideways, diving into the fog like an uncertain swimmer into the Serpentine.

I reached out to grab her, but it was too late.

I knew I had only moments before the vehicle would career out of control. I kicked at the door and swung myself out and on to the body of the cab, hanging on for grim death.