Mark Gatiss - The Vesuvius Club

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.

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!»

He snapped his fingers with the assurance of a born team captain, face already reddening in the heat, and sat with one leg up on the marble, as solid and impressive as the Velázquez Mars (having mislaid his helmet). Next to his frame, I did seem positively emaciated.

We sipped at small glasses of sweet-smelling tea brought to us by a capaciously girthed Turk and fell into happy conversation (or gossip if you prefer), denigrating the pompous and the talent-less who we felt were being preferred over us. Merely assassinating someone’s character made for a pleasant change.

«By the way,» said Miracle suddenly. «I’m having a party. Or a ball, if you want to be grand. In honour of the return of Persephone, goddess of the summer. Possible you could come? Or are you over-committed?»

«I collect invitations on the mantelpiece behind a bust of the late Queen. Just now I fear Her Majesty will be pitched forward into the fireplace. I’d never miss one of your parties, though, Christopher. I trust there will be a superabundance of flesh?»

«I’m counting on it. I may invite one or two from my drawing class.»

«Drawing class?»

«Didn’t I tell you? Oh, I’ve been taking a class for ladies in one of those mechanical institutes down in Chelsea. A weekly thing. Requires little effort on my part and has several benefits. Perhaps you should give it a bash.»

I sank back on the seat and rested on my palms. «Benefits, eh? Let me guess,» I mused. «Firstly, hmm, yes, it keeps you in regular contact with just the kind of idle rich who are liable to commission pictures from you.»

«Excellent.»

«Further enhancing your laurel-strewn reputation,» I said gazing thoughtfully at the steam-clouded ceiling. «Secondly, every now and then one such patron turns out to be a real stunner and game for a lark.»

Miracle laughed explosively. «Now, really, Box.»

«Thirdly, it allows you to put a little back into society by encouraging the artistic endeavours of those less talented than yourself.» I smiled broadly. «I have, of course, put these benefits in order of priority.»

«Your reasoning, Box, is perfectly sound,» said Miracle with a grin. «I allow twelve of them in at any one time,» he said. «Probably for no better reason than it makes the occasion feel vaguely like a coven.»

«With you as the presiding daemon?»

«Naturally. They have tea and there’s a little chatter and not a little swooning around yours truly, then my pupils set to work scrawling away quite appallingly with their charcoal at whatever I place in the centre of the room. It seems they have come to regard my classes as the highlights of their existence.»