The Vesuvius Club

3. The Mystery of the Two Geologists

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.»

I nodded to an orderly who came forward with a brass bowl of cold water. I splashed my face and ran a hand through my hair.

«What a shining light you are, Miracle!» I ejaculated. «How come that booby Holman Hunt never did your portrait in that hideous style of his?»

Miracle chuckled.

«Speaking of pictures,» I said, «didn’t you once paint a scientist chap called Verdigris?»

Miracle thought for a moment. «Believe I did. Great fat fellow. Eyes spaced too wide like a flat-fish. Come to think of it, I heard he’s vanished. Along with some old pal of his called Sash.»

«I too had heard something of the kind.»

«Don’t know much about the other. Seems they both suffered a sort of seizure. Are you digging for something?»

I shrugged. Alone amongst my friends, Miracle had some idea of my «other life» but even then thought it no more than the hobby of an over-diligent gossip.

«Geologists, I gather,» I said at last.

Miracle nodded. «Old Cambridge chums. Verdigris died the day after Sash. Very rum.»

«Life is full of coincidences.»

«So they say,» laughed Miracle. «Do you think these events are connected? I’ll see what I can root out.»

For a while, we sat in silence, steeped in the lethargy induced by the chamber’s broiling heat. Occasionally, the mists cleared, revealing the green-and-red tiled arches of the roof. The baths hummed with human traffic; the hissing of the coals, the distant ploosh of patrons in the plunge pools, the heavy sighing of thickset, red-faced gents, towels wrapped like swaddling around their hard bellies.

After a time, Miracle smiled, thrust out his lower lip then patted my leg and rose. «Shan’t be a moment. Nature calls.»

I watched him stride away through the billowing steam-clouds and was so engrossed by the progress of a great heavy drop of sweat down my face that I almost failed to notice a veiny forearm suddenly clamp itself around my gullet.

With a gasp, I sank my fingers into the flesh of the arm. Struggling to stand, I found myself hauled backwards by a wild strength. My back struck the slippery marble steps and for a second or so my head swam.

«Blackguard!» hissed a voice in my ear. «Scoundrel!»

Well, I had been called worse. I twisted my head wildly to one side, attempting to catch sight of my attacker, but the clouds of steam showed only glimpses of glistening flesh and a pair of goggling, enraged eyes beneath thick black brows. His arm tightened around my throat.

I kicked out at the brass bowl in a desperate effort to attract the attention of the attendants but, with lightning speed, my assailant began to drag me towards a neglected niche. The towel slipped from my waist and I felt my buttocks sliding over the seat.

I croaked frantically. Would one of the elderly gentlemen in their steamy shrouds notice and raise the alarm? But a ruddy hand with hairy knuckles was quickly planted over my mouth. I was completely helpless. Salty sweat stung at my eyes.

«Now, you villain! Now I have you!» The fellow’s breath was stale with tobacco. I was on my haunches, my senses whirling. Yet, at the very moment of defeat, I snatched a chance of victory. Using the brute’s heaviness to my advantage, I shoved backwards against him and drove my elbow savagely into his midriff.

He gave a startled cry, fell lumpenly against the tiles and momentarily slackened his iron grip on my head and neck. It was all I needed.

Springing to my feet, I whirled around and kicked him in the throat, my leg extended with the grace of a dancer — even if I do say so myself.

His hands flew to his Adam’s apple but I gave him no quarter, pummelling his face with my fists and then, after taking a handful of his wet hair, cracking his face off the wall.

«What is this?» I gasped. «What do you want with me?»

The fellow was revealed now, a great hirsute middle-aged creature, with long, oily moustaches and a face as red as brick. Where had I seen the ugly bastard before? In the criminal archives of the Viennese police, perhaps? Or was he one of the brotherhood of blind assassins who had sworn revenge on me after the Affair of the Prussian Martyrs?

Those enraged eyes glared at me still. With a snarl he put his head down and charged at me. I stepped swiftly to one side but he caught me round the waist and together we stumbled back into the main chamber.

By now, of course, we had been noticed. As we whirled about, feet slithering on the wet floor, I had a confused impression of white towels and scarlet faces, mouths opened in wide «o's» of astonishment. The Turk who had brought Miracle’s tea hovered around us, arms flapping, like the referee in a wrestling bout.

«Can’t we… discuss this… like gentlemen?» I gasped.

He rose from my naked waist and jabbed a fist at my face. I sidestepped clumsily, feet skidding.

«Gentleman? You?» he spat.

The Turk was at his elbow, his face a mask of misery. «Please! Please, sirs! If you have business, let it be concluded in the»

He said no more, as my attacker laid him out with a swift right to the underside of his swarthy jaw and he fell to the tiles like a sack of coal.

I cracked a fist against my assailant’s cheek-bone. «Christ!» I yelled, sucking my knuckles.

He screwed up one eye in pain and jabbed at me again. «Lucifer Box! Ha! Was ever a rascal so well named? You are the devil, sir. The very devil!»

I ducked from his fist and managed to land a serious wallop on the side of his head. He staggered and almost fell on the treacherous floor.

«Bringer of light, I assure you!» I cried. My blood was up and so were my fists as I circled the monster. «Lucifer was the brightest and most beautiful of the angels. Till that old margery of a deity got so jealous that he cast him out!»

He snarled at this and succeeded in punching me, with sickening force, in the ribs.

Crying out in pain, I dropped, winded. My knees smacking on the floor with a snap like wish-bones.

The fellow stalked up to me and grasped a great hunk of my hair. «Bringer of light! What have you brought to my household but misery and scandal? My God, sir, I shall thrash the life out of you before I’m done!»

I shook my head miserably. «Who… who are you?»

He sneered at me, his moustaches hanging limply around his red mouth like those of a Chinaman. «I am Pugg, sir. Major Strangeways Pugg.»

«Oh,» I said, simply.

«And it is my daughter, my sweet little Avril who you have despoiled and ruined!»

I winced as he tightened his grip on my hair. Remembrance swept over me like cold water from the Turk’s brass bowl. A party, some months previously. Whey-faced poets, frayed-cuffed artists; all the splendid flotsam of bohemian London life. And a girl. A girl with a dog’s name and the body of a goddess. Avril Pugg. There’d been a balcony, starlight, whispered words then something very cheeky in the rhododendrons.

Now there was a father. He raised his great fist and drew it back. I watched it swing towards me through streaming eyes.

Then there came a strange, bright clang and Pugg crashed to the floor, his addled eyes rolling up in his head like those of a doll.

I looked up and saw my friend standing over the unconscious major, a filigreed Turkish tea-urn still swinging in his right hand.

«Miracle,» I groaned.

«Too bloody right!» he cried, grasping my hand and pulling me to my feet.