Mark Gatiss - The Vesuvius Club

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 more . The prestigious address! The handsome young artist! The showers of sovereigns I could squeeze out of the gullible nitwits! And then I could afford to replace Poplar without waiting for Reynolds’s patronage. Of course, I’d have to do a little clearing up, but think of it!

The upshot was I placed a small advertisement in The Times, Pall Mall Gazette, Budget and a few other rags, making the arrangement sound thoroughly wholesome, with just the faintest whiff of la vie bohème to attract those craving excitement.

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 crêpe 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 Pall Mall Gazette I was shown into a cluttered study for an audience.

«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 Gazette offers its sincerest condolences.»

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.

Magnetic Viscosity , I read, with some notes on volcanic convection . More light reading seemed on the agenda.

Sans moustache, I lunched in the domino room at the Café 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 Magnetic Viscosity ,» I said blithely. «Was your husband acquainted with—?»

«Oh yes. From their Cambridge days. Eli seems to have passed away the day after Frederick. What in heaven’s name can it mean?»

I nodded sympathetically and scratched at my false moustache. «Of course, there was no… ill feeling between—?»

Mrs Sash shook her handsome head. «There was some rivalry, naturally, both being in the same field but no more than that. They were always on very good terms, though they had seen little of one another since their Continental adventure came to an end.»

«Continental—?»

«They once worked together in Europe for some little time.»

I scribbled in my note-book. «No previous illness—?»

«There had been nothing out of the ordinary.»

I was hoping to persuade the lady to absent herself briefly as I had with Professor Verdigris’s son, to facilitate a quick nose around the room, but my request for refreshment was answered by a delicate pull on the bell rope and the appearance of a dour-faced flunky.

I paused with my pencil hovering over the paper. «This was your husband’s—?»

«Study? No, no. He has a room on the first floor. Claimed it was too noisy down here.» She passed a hand over her face. «He was at home all day, working up a theorem. The late post had just come when»

She sniffed back a tear. «You must excuse me for now, sir. We are somewhat upside-down at the moment. There is so much to do.»

«One final thing, Mrs Sash. Have I missed the funeral?»

I had. It had taken place only the previous day in Southwark.

Mrs Sash glanced down at her neat little hands. «There again I was vexed. We were unable to use the firm my husband’s family had always relied upon.»

«Firm?»

«The undertaking firm, sir. Tulip Brothers. Retired, it seems, without so much as a note! The business has been taken over. I suppose it all passed off well enough…»

«But?»

«But there was something a little… queer about them.»

«What makes you say that?»

She sighed. «Well, whatever good-will they inherited has been squandered, I can tell you. It was a rather amateurish display.»