Mark Gatiss - The Vesuvius Club

A moment later, I had my revolver from my coat and loosed off a round between my own feet. Only as the smoke was rising from the ghastly sticky ooze did I feel able to drag the remains of my trousers over my shoes and hurl them into the corner.

A second attempt on my life! It seemed that someone was absolutely determined to prevent me getting to the heart of this baffling matter. But who?

I set Delilah to work packing my trunk and collapsed into an armchair with a glass of brandy, contemplating mortality. As the invaluable Domestic clumped about upstairs, I sifted through the less lethal portions of my correspondence. I opened the parcel and found inside, as expected, an old book, its pages brittle with age and a square of paper that read BAIT! Appointment with Quibble — Seven-thirty. 387 Via San Fontanella. M

Friend Miracle had not let me down. Despite being banged up he seemed still able to pull any amount of strings. He had fixed up an appointment for me with the elusive Professor Quibble and now I had something to entice the Professor into imparting secrets. I turned the book over and the soft binding flashed in the firelight.

Also in the unfortunate postman’s pile was a delicately scented note from the divine Miss Bella Pok. I held it to my face and grinned like a love-struck schoolboy. It ran:

Good-bye, devilish Mr Box. Until we meet again.

I placed the note carefully amongst my shirts. The thought of returning to one such as Bella was enough to sustain me through any danger. For now, I had to try to wrap up this Miracle business as expeditiously as possible. I could not afford to miss my appointment in Naples with Quibble. I was unlikely to get a second chance.

AN hour later, Inspector Flush’s fat face beamed cheerfully at me from the other side of his desk.

We were in the brown office he called home. There was a little spirit burner in the corner and a quantity of tinned food that led me to believe the inspector kept unsociable hours. Then I noticed a whitish band of flesh on his finger where once a ring must have been. Perhaps Mrs Flush had recently quit the scene.

I had called at the Yard, fully expecting to be fobbed off by some flunky in a helmet, only to find the man himself still at his post, though without a collar and nursing what I think was a mug of brandy.

«Don’t you see,» I said. «It’s just as feasible to imagine poor Mrs Knight leaving the Mechanical Institute and being murdered elsewhere as it is Christopher Miracle knocking off the wretched woman in a lavatory!»

Flush made a helpless gesture. «Mr Miracle is unable to provide us with a witness for his activities between half-past nine and ten o’clock. He could have strangled her and left her in the convenience until later.»

«And carried on an entire class without turning a hair?»

«Some killers are exceptionally cool.»

I gave an exasperated groan. «But where’s the motive, man!»

Flush gave a satisfied smile and produced a long, cream-coloured envelope from his coat. He held it before me like a lure.

«What’s this?» I asked.

«It’s a copy of Mrs Knight’s will. Amongst numerous small bequests is the sum of five hundred pounds to her dedicated art-master, Mr Christopher Miracle.»

«What? Well, what of it? Miracle’s filthy rich.»

«Many have killed for less, sir.»

I took the envelope from him and examined the contents. «Hmm. By that argument, it could look blacker against the husband.»

«The husband?»

«Yes. She leaves him the sum of two thousand pounds, an annuity from her previous husband which… it seems… he was unable to control during her life-time.»

«Mr Knight was seen to drive away from the Mechanical Institute.»

«Then he could have employed someone to do it for him.»

«Mr Box»

«You’ve met the man, Flush. Even if money wasn’t the motive, it’s obvious he disapproved of his wife having any kind of social life. When she began to grow more confident and independent he found he couldn’t tolerate it and strangled her!»

Flush gave me a hard look. «You’re running away with yourself, sir. What about the glove?»

I waved my hand impatiently. «Easy enough to steal a lady’s glove! And where did this blood come from? The coroner says she was strangled, I believe.»

Flush seemed to consider this for a moment. «Well, well. I’ll bear your theories in mind, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, I have rather a lot to be getting on with. I’m afraid this isn’t the only case I have on hand.»

I was shown out into a dreary corridor. I thrust my hands into my pockets and walked disconsolately towards the exit, glancing halfheartedly at the walls, scarcely taking in the bills tacked to cork boards, the ugly illustrations of wanted felons, the sooty smears that marked the walls above the cracked gas-lamps. I was utterly stumped as to my next move. It was imperative I get to Naples forthwith, yet how could I leave Miracle in such peril? Would I have to put myself further into Joshua Reynolds’s debt by asking him to use his influence? My musings were suddenly interrupted.

«Oh Lor!» came a hoarse shriek. «Don’t ’urt me! Don’t ’urt me, please!»

I turned to the left to see a constable «escorting» a woman from the premises. She appeared to be little more than a heap of dirty electric blue skirts, a grisly-looking drudge, hair all askew.

«You can’t just sling me art!»

«You just watch me,» said the policeman.

«But what about me friend?»

The policeman pushed open the door and warm air rolled inside. «Cor, you’re sweating gin, woman! I told you. We got more important things to do than go chasing after your imaginary pals. Now, gertcha!»

He slung the creature through the doorway. As the door swung back, I just caught her croaking call. «’E done ’er in, I know that! That miracle man!»

My ears pricked up and I walked swiftly to the door, which the constable held open for me.

«Evening, sir.»

I gave him a nod and then walked out into the night.

The woman was stumbling to her feet on the steps of the station.

«Forgive me, my dear,» I said, offering my arm. «Would you like some help?»

She shot me a suspicious glance, then grabbed at my sleeve and hauled herself up.

«We haven’t been introduced.» I smiled. «Lucifer Box.»

«Kitty,» she said, swallowing nervously. «Kitty Backlash.»

«I couldn’t help overhearing you. Something about a miracle?»

She nodded feverishly. «It’s that Mr Miracle. I read the story in the papers. ’E done ’er in!»

«Mrs Knight?»

«No! Mrs Frenzy!»

«Who?»

What was this? Two murders poor Miracle was fingered for?

Kitty Backlash blew air noisily from between her lips, making an unpleasantly blubbery sound. «Couldn’t stand us a drink, could you, sir? It’s a ruddy long and strange tale I ’ave to tell and I’ve been tramping ’alfway across town today.»

«Of course. Come on.»

We found a suitably bright and rowdy pub only a street away. I lined up two glasses of gin for my guest, just enough to show I could be generous but also to ensure I got her story while she was still sober.

«Now, Miss Backlash,» I said, sitting down next to her in a corner seat. «Pray continue.»

She sank a draught of gin and rubbed at her face with a shaking hand.

«It’s ’ard to think straight, sir. Honest it is. But I’ll start at the start, if you takes me meaning.»

I watched her closely, her ugly face reflecting back even uglier in the shining mirrors of the pub.

«My friend, then, is called Abigail Frenzy. She’s a parlourmaid, or was. Worked for a foreign gent over Barnes way. Anyway, one day she says to me, Kitty, I’ve come into some good fortune. I says, ain’t you a maid no more? And she laughs — I’ve got it easy now. A fiver just for sitting about and scribbling all day.»