Retromancer (8 page)

I bent over in that flowery garden, my hands upon my knees, feeling all sick and woozy and no good to man nor to beast.

Mr Rune joined me there, still puffing on his cigar.

‘You are a villain,’ I said, drawing myself into the vertical plane. ‘You are a scoundrel and a rotter. Of course you could solve this case. Because you are the cause of the horror. You did that to that poor man. Turned him invisible with your magic, as you turned Mr McMurdo into a garden gnome.’

‘A garden gnome?’ And Mr Rune chuckled. ‘I rather like that. But no, Rizla, once more you have it wrong. I did not do that to Professor Campbell. Rather it would seem that he did it to himself.’

‘Are you serious?’ I asked. ‘Are you telling me the truth? This is all too weird for me. Is Professor Campbell dead? Can he be brought back to life?’

‘Questions, questions, questions.’ Hugo Rune took a further suck at his cigar and blew out a plume of smoke in the shape of the Lord Mayor’s coach. ‘Allow me to explain,’ he said and then went on to do so. ‘I must confess some puzzlement, young Rizla, regarding you doubting the existence of God, as to my personal knowledge you watched the crucifixion of Christ on the screen of the Chronovision and met his many-times great-grandson, Lord Tobes.’

‘I am a teenager,’ I explained to the guru’s guru. ‘I am inconsistent and contradictory as the mood takes me.’

‘Quite so,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But to me the existence of God is, as our American cousins might put it, “a given”. Without the existence of God and the orders of beings He created, angelic and otherwise, magic, the High Magick, could not function. Professor Campbell sought to discover the God Particle because it is this particle that constitutes the ether, the very medium along which magic is transmitted, as it were.’

‘And you are saying that he found it and in doing so put himself into the unfortunate situation that he is now in?’

Hugo Rune flicked ash from his cigar with his little pinkie finger and shook his large head sagely. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I am not. Professor Campbell did not discover the God Particle. Because the God Particle cannot be discovered. The evidence of God’s existence is essentially esoteric and exclusively within the realm of belief. There can never be solid evidence that you can hold in your hand. God is God, Rizla, He knows everything and He is everywhere. Everything is composed of God Particles, everything.’

‘I am as confused as ever I was,’ I said.

‘Now that does surprise me. For I have only devoted several lifetimes to this study and still confess to knowing but little. I naturally would have thought that a present-day teenager could pick up such matters within half an hour.’

‘You are being sarcastic,’ I observed. ‘So fair enough. But what did happen to the professor? And can he be restored to health and normality?’

‘Professor Campbell is dead,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘His mortal form dissolved into the ether. No magic that I or any other Magus living possesses can restore him to life. Presently the psychic echo of him that I outlined through the employment of this sanctified cigar will vanish for ever. Clearly he worked out the formula, the equation necessary to prove the existence of the God Particle. Such a formula or equation would constitute the strongest spell in the universe. The war would certainly be won in an instant by the country that possessed such a spell and knew how to use it correctly. And he read it aloud. I suspect that his calculations were only ninety-nine-point-nine per cent correct. And so he became subject to the scourge of all clumsy magicians, the three-fold law of return, whereby an incorrect calling is reflected back upon the caller with triple force. Most unfortunate for the professor, but fortunate for the Allies.’

‘How so fortunate?’ I asked. ‘The spell does not work. Quite to the contrary in fact.’

‘Precisely,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But the Nazis aren’t to know that, are they? And so when one of the high muckamuck magicians recites it, he too will go the way of Professor Campbell. Hopefully taking a few of his close-by companions-in-infamy with him.’

‘But the Nazis do not have the professor’s spell, do they?’ I said.

‘Oh yes they do,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘or at least they soon will.’

‘How so?’ I asked again, and I really sighed as I asked it.

‘Because the Nazi spy working in the professor’s house will be transporting it to them even now.’

‘Will they?’ I said. And now I was really confused. ‘And how could you possibly know that?’

‘Because you and I met her only a short while ago. She opened the front door and directed us to the cellar laboratory. Did you not notice that she was in a great hurry to get us down there? It was so that she could flee before her identity was discovered. She had found what she was looking for and was making good her escape with it.’

‘But how did you know that she is a spy?’ I asked.

‘Because I recognised her, Rizla. She is Countess Lucretia. The wife of my arch-enemy Count Otto Black. You will recall that I put paid to the evil count in the nineteen sixties. But these are the nineteen forties and he is alive and well and in the employ of the Nazis.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Which was all I had. But then I said, ‘But surely she recognised you.’

‘Of course she did, Rizla. I did introduce myself to her. And I’m sure that it amuses her greatly to think that she has pulled one over on me. I certainly hope that it does, anyway.’

‘And so the case is over,’ I said. ‘And I suppose it is a satisfactory conclusion. Although not for poor Professor Campbell.’

‘Caught in the cosmic crossfire, as it were. Regrettable, but these are troubled times. Ah, Rizla, I see a bus coming, let us return to town and take tea.’

But I shouted, ‘No!’ And then I shouted, ‘Run, Mr Rune. Back into the house, run.’

And Mr Rune, seeing that I meant what I said and clearly sensing that something was deeply amiss did that very thing.

We dived through the open doorway, slammed the door behind us, rushed down the hall and into the kitchen. And not before time did we do this, because so great was the explosion that followed that it brought down the front of the house, lifted the roof and chimney pots and cast them far beyond the back garden.

Coughing and gagging somewhat, we raised our ducked heads and Mr Rune took to dusting down his tweeds, before patting me on the shoulder.

‘ Stirling work,’ he said to me. ‘You saved our lives, Rizla. But how you knew what was coming, I confess that I do not know.’

‘It was a bus,’ I said.

‘Yes, Rizla, I am well aware that it was a bus.’

‘It was a Number Twenty-Seven bus,’ I said.

And then there was a moment’s pause.

And then Mr Rune said, ‘And that is supposed to be significant, is it?’

‘Well, I did not know it was going to blow up,’ I said. ‘I thought it was going to run us over.’

‘I am still in the dark, I regret. And such a lack of illumination suits me not at all.’

‘I had a vision,’ I explained, ‘on the top deck of the tram. An old ragged man warned me to run when I saw the number twenty-seven. I thought it might be a door number, or something. I was not expecting a bus. And certainly not an exploding bus.’

‘Packed with dynamite, I suspect, and certainly intended to destroy us. So, it was a vision that warned you.’ And Hugo Rune nodded thoughtfully. ‘And did this vision have a name?’

‘He did,’ I said. ‘He said that his name was Diogenes.’

‘Excellent, splendid, A-one and dinky-do. It would appear that you have a guardian angel watching over you. How appropriate considering the nature of our first case.’ And Hugo Rune flung an imaginary hat into the air. ‘Then this first case is now most successfully concluded. Diogenes of Sinope, my dear Rizla, was a Greek philosopher. He eschewed all domestic comforts for a life of austere asceticism. He lived in squalor and preached on self-sufficiency. A tarot card is based upon him. And the name of that tarot card is-’

‘THE HERMIT?’ I said.

And Hugo Rune nodded.

‘It’s time for tea,’ he said.

JUSTICE

I did not immediately take to Lord Jason Lark-Rising.

He appeared upon Mr Rune’s doorstop on a Monday morning in early March, while Mr Rune and I were recovering from the after-effects of a particularly heroic five-course breakfast. Waistcoat buttons had been undone, and bellies gently massaged.

‘Get the front door, Rizla,’ cried Hugo Rune, ‘before that young jackanapes has the knocker off it.’

As Lord Jason had yet to reach out for the knocker, I hastened, though sluggishly and unenthusiastically, to oblige the great man. Loud knockings would not suit either of us at that particular time.

Time, always time, and upon this occasion my timing was poor. I swung open the door as Lord Jason groped towards our knocker. The young aristocrat was clearly distracted, for he took hold of my nose and attempted to knock with it.

Which greatly amused a lady in a straw hat who was passing by at the time, but failed to bring joy unto me.

‘Dashed sorry, old bogie,’ said his Lordship, releasing his grip and examining his fingers with distaste. ‘Wish to see Rune, go fish him out for me, do.’

I eyed up this fellow and I did this with similar distaste. I had seen him around and about in the borough, whilst I was strolling in the company of Mr Rune, who still would not let me go out on my own. And the Perfect Master had pointed him out and told me all about him.

He was born to heroic stock; the bloodline of the Lark-Risings could be traced back to the time of Richard the Lionheart, when one of Lord Jason’s ancestors had saved that monarch’s life by decapitating a Mussulman who was taking a swing at him with a great big pointy sword. And so it had gone on since then, with the Lark-Risings performing noble deeds for King and country down through the ages and right up to the present day.

And in this present day that I now inhabited, there were still many members of the aristocracy to be found living upon Brentford’s historic Butts Estate. It was later, during the October mini-uprising of nineteen fifty-one that those who did not flee found themselves up against the wall. Brentford’s brief revolution and instigation as an independent communist republic had not proved popular with the locals, who soon ousted the ruling junta.

These in turn fled, including, my Aunt Edna told me, a certain local baker who had risen to prominence in the mini-revolution and who had it away upon his heels to Cuba. I think my Aunt Edna had quite a ‘thing’ for that baker Mr Castro.

But that was for the future and this was for the now. Before me, on Mr Rune’s doorstep, stood this young aristocrat. Surely hardly older than myself, but with that confident bearing and authoritative manner that marked him out from a common-as-mucker such as myself. Naturally I was jealous – well, of course I was. He was very good-looking and very well dressed and he came from a very good family.

‘Mr Rune is away on important business,’ I said, closing the door upon Lord Jason Lark-Rising.

‘Oh no I’m not, young Rizla,’ boomed a voice from within. ‘Allow His Lordship entry at the hurry-up.’

‘Apparently he just returned,’ I said and allowed his Lordship entry.

There was something very vibrant about this young man. He veritably bounced past me into the hall and pranced into Mr Rune’s study.

I followed him in and a certain joy was brought to me as I noticed the immediate change in his demeanour when he found himself in the presence of Hugo Rune.

A certain humility manifested itself.

‘Good day, sir,’ said Lord Jason. Sir! I liked that. ‘So sorry to trouble you, but something has come to my notice that I felt I must bring to yours. So to speak, suchlike and so on.’

‘Please seat yourself,’ said Hugo Rune. And directed Lord Jason to my chair. ‘Rizla, fetch coffee, if you will.’

‘And if I will not?’ I asked, huffily.

‘You will, Rizla, you will.’

And so I did. And I returned with it, in the bestest pot, with the bestest cups and saucers on the very bestest tray. And I did so in time to hear Mr Rune cry, ‘Now here’s a thing and no mistake. The sheer unbridled gall.’

So I set down the coffee tray upon an occasional table which no doubt had been yearning for an occasion such as this to arrive and I asked Mr Rune what the trouble might be.

‘This letter,’ said Himself. ‘Delivered anonymously to the house of Lord Jason. Here, read it aloud, if you will.’

‘Oh I say,’ His Lordship protested. ‘It’s not for common folk like him.’

But Hugo Rune stilled this protest with a gesture. ‘My amanuensis Rizla can be trusted,’ he said. ‘He is my valued companion. Now, Rizla, please read it aloud. And also let us have your observations.’ And he handed an envelope to me and I took this, examined it and said the following things.

‘A cheap envelope,’ I said, ‘which could have been purchased anywhere; no stamp, so as you say, hand-delivered. Opened with a paperknife.’

And Hugo Rune said, ‘Bravo.’

I drew the letter from the envelope and opened it up with care. ‘Folded seven times,’ I said. ‘Rather unusual and unnecessary. But typed-’ and I examined the typing carefully ‘-upon a somewhat superannuated typewriter, which has given several distinctive features to the print. And now the contents I shall read aloud.’

And so I did.

Dear Scum

I read. And, ‘Ahem,’ went I.

Dear Scum,

Know that the war is lost for you and your kind, you who have squeezed this country until the very pips bled. A Dawn of Gold shines from out of the darkness. Your end is nigh and know this too. We will take back what is ours, starting with your National Treasure. Before the Dawn comes. This shall be the first sign of our power.

‘It is not signed,’ I said. And I turned the letter over. ‘That is all it says.’

‘And what do you make of it, Rizla?’

‘Poison pen letter,’ I said. ‘From some local nutter who has it in for the swells.’

‘There is a great deal more to it than that, methinks. Pour coffee, if you will.’

I returned the letter and envelope to Mr Rune and poured coffee. Lord Jason helped himself to three spoonfuls of ersatz sugar and a Bourbon biscuit that I had set aside for myself. I sat down at the now-occasioned table and awaited further developments. These were not too long in coming.

‘National Treasure,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Now what would you take that to be, Rizla?’

‘A plot to kidnap George Formby?’ I suggested.

‘Try once more.’

‘Not Vera Lynn?’ And here I shrugged. ‘I have never liked her much anyway.’

‘No, Rizla,’ said Himself. ‘It is referring to the National Treasure. It is referring to the Crown jewels.’

‘Oooh,’ I went and I whistled as I went. ‘A plot to steal the Crown jewels, how exciting.’ But there was a certain tone to my voice. One that more than merely hinted that I was not convinced.

‘Are you suggesting that I am wrong?’

‘Why, perish the thought,’ said I. ‘But come on now, Mr Rune, that is a letter from a loony.’

‘Would you care to wager on this matter?’

‘Well…’ But I knew far better than to bet against Hugo Rune. ‘I will keep my money,’ I said. ‘Or would if I had any. Do you not think it is time that you started paying me some wages?’

But Hugo Rune was having none of that. ‘ “Before the Dawn comes,” ’ he quoted. ‘Which I must take to mean that the Crown jewels are to be stolen tonight.’

But I shook my head at this. ‘Oh, please,’ I said. ‘The Crown jewels? This will be only our second case, if it proves to be a case at all. The theft of the Crown jewels is a Crime-of-the-Century sort of occurrence. Surely that would merit it being at least our eighth or ninth case?’

And, pleased with the persuasiveness of this argument, I took to supping my coffee.

‘I shall take the case,’ said Hugo Rune to Lord Jason. ‘Is your Uncle Rottweiler still an equerry at Kensington Palace?’

Lord Jason nodded.

‘I already have an OBE and a Victoria Cross,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘When I save the National Treasure, I think perhaps a very special one-off knighthood would be in order, in honour of that particular day. What say you?’

And Lord Jason nodded once more.

‘Ludicrous,’ I said. And I threw up my hands, nearly taking my left eye out with my coffee spoon.

‘Well, ludicrous or not, it takes my fancy. Pluck a card from the deck and we’ll be on our way.’

‘But my breakfast has not gone down yet,’ I complained.

‘A card from the deck, young Rizla.’

And I plucked a card from the deck.