The Vesuvius Club

5. A Curious Undertaking

«NO clue?»

Joshua Reynolds, sitting in his accustomed place on the pan, raised his little hands, palm upwards. «The Italian police have it down as a robbery gone awry. We shall have to wait and see. The body has been packed in ice and arrives tomorrow.»

«Poor devil,» I said, leaning back against the pleasantly chill wall of the lavatory. «Saw Naples and died, you might say.»

«So much for Poop,» said Reynolds glumly. «Have you made any progress with the dead professors?»

I thrust my hands into my trouser pockets and kicked idly at the cubicle wall. «Some, I think. They were both concerned with the same branch of Geological Physics and had known each other of old. In addition, there was something odd about Sash’s funeral.»

Reynolds frowned. «Not much, all told.»

«I had precious little chance to investigate Professor Sash’s effects,» I continued. «So I plan to return for a… root about.»

The little man gave a sigh. «How I envy you your adventures, Lucifer. What is left for me but a dull retirement spent in the cultivation of ornamental carp?»

«One man’s fish is another man’s poisson.»

«Ye… es. Now then, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.»

So saying, he pulled at the toilet chain and, with a screeching, grinding sound, the wall behind me rose up and another lavatory bowl glided into the room.

Sitting on it was a gangling young man in quite the most horrible piece of tailoring I’d ever seen. The sleeves of his suit crept over the knuckles of slim, feminine hands with which he was kneading his hat like a widow with her rosary.

«Mr Box,» said Reynolds, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to his reddened nose. «This is Mr Unmann.»

The blond man shot a hand to his crown in order to doff his hat and then remembered it was doffed already. A stupid smile made his nose crinkle in the middle.

«Sorry,» he began.

«Whatever for?» I asked.

«Oh, sorry. Don’t really know why I said that. It’s a great honour to meet you at last, Mr Box. Cretaceous Unmann.»

«Cretaceous?»

«Yes,» he muttered, looking down at his hands. «Fact is, Papa was an amateur dinosaur-hunter. Never got much further than the Isle of Wight but, hey-ho. Took it upon himself to name me in honour of his favourite epoch. Sorry.»

I smiled pityingly. «I suppose it could have been worse,» I said. «He could have named you after his favourite dinosaur.»

«Ha, ha! Yes!» Unmann exploded in a shrill laugh. «Iguanodon Unmann, eh?»

Thankfully, Reynolds cut in at this juncture. «Mr Unmann has been lined up to succeed Poop in the Naples office.»

«I see. Remarkably expeditious of you.»

«Yes. Shocking business,» bleated Unmann. «I knew old Jocelyn. Sometimes acted as his deputy. Dreadful, dreadful.»

He looked down at his squashed hat and then put it to one side of the lavatory bowl.

The dwarf handed a buff folder to me.

«Someone fired his rooms,» said Unmann, miserably. «But those few fragments escaped.»

«Our people in Naples sent them straight over with Mr Unmann,» said Reynolds.

I opened the file. A smell of charred paper hit me at once. A couple of documents were enclosed within, tied up neatly with waxed string. I released them and swiftly read them over.

The first was a scrap of good-quality notepaper. On it was written the legend:

K TO V.C.?

«Looks like hotel stationery,» I said. «Shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.»

The next was a long white envelope containing a sheet of slightly singed foolscap.

To Joshua Reynolds

Sir. It is important that you know all that is afoot. I am certain I may rely on you above all persons, even poor Unmann, bless his heart, who has been such a brick and who means so well.

I glanced across at the young man. His face twisted into a shy smile.

If all goes well, I shall return to London as planned and there relate to you the story of my adventures. It is a tale so fantastic that you will scarcely credit it. I do not lie when I say it could shake the pillars of the Empire! If I can but thwart these men’s schemes, then I will be Poop the Civil Service mouse no more but Poop the Lion of the Foreign Office! If I am unlucky then it will fall to others to pick up the threads. All that I know of this affair is contained in the trunk marked with my name. I pray you will never have to read this. JP

I folded the letter on my lap and replaced it in its envelope.

«The trunk of course, did not escape the flames,» muttered Joshua Reynolds miserably. «Foolish youth! Such wilful egotism has more than once cost us dear. If a conspiracy is discovered then simple can-dour is absolutely essential!»

I could only agree. I recalled the Shanghai Balloon Incident — which so nearly did for one of our lesser PMs — and the fatal damage caused by one fellow’s refusal to share what he knew with his colleagues. I should know. That fellow was me.

I tapped the envelope. «Any suspects in the Poop murder?»

«They’ve rounded up the traditional pretty lot. Smashers, thugs, vitriol throwers, extortionists…»

«A veritable catalogue of vice!» I cried cheerily. «Now isn’t that a good idea? The kind of catalogue I’d instantly subscribe to.»

«Lucifer,» said Joshua Reynolds, warningly.

I tapped my fingers against my chin. «„Shake the pillars of the Empire“, eh? What the deuce could he have meant?»

The next morning found me on a train rattling through a muggy north London. Dreary villas streamed past in a blur of hideous brightness. As soon as I reached the nearest post office, I thought, I would send a wire to Miss Bella Pok apologizing again for the hasty termination of our lesson and looking forward to another meeting soon. What would it be like to flee this baking wen of a city and run barefoot through a field of ripening green corn with that lovely girl? I pictured us laughing gaily, tumbling into the undergrowth, the cyan sky blazing above us…

I ran a finger under my collar and sighed, horribly stifled by my summer rig. Surely the cause of Men’s Dress Reform must do most of its recruiting during the interminable London Augusts? I longed to throw my straw hat from the carriage and toss my cream waistcoat into the Thames as the Reformers are wont to do. Leafy Belsize Park was not, I reasoned, quite ready for the sight of yours truly in the buff, so I hopped from the train still fully clothed and, after contracting my business at the post office, found myself outside the offices of Mr Tom Bowler Esq. — the undertaker who had so disquieted Mrs Sash.

I began by taking a quick look around the yard at the rear of the premises. A dog-cart with a sad-looking horse in its shafts stood squarely in the centre but it was otherwise empty, save for a heap of dead flowers and wreaths that might have been the beginnings of a bonfire. I crouched down and picked through the wilted debris. Here was a wreath for the late Professor Sash. Here was a bouquet of flattened lilies, reeking dreadfully. And here — aha! A wreath for Professor Eli Verdigris! Both funerals had been taken care of by the same firm! And with a similar want of respect for the trappings of grief. I made my way around to the front.

The door was ajar and the rooms within lit. I adopted my most doleful expression and made my way inside.

It was a bare-looking suite of rooms with frosted windows and a long, dark counter that occupied half its width. Framed mezzotints of cherubs and angels crowded the green walls. There were pots of lilies everywhere and motes of orange pollen drifting from them through the dim gas-light. I wrinkled my nose at the faint smell of brackish water.

There seemed to be no one about. I rang the brass bell on the counter and, after a time, a door opened somewhere in the rear of the premises and footsteps sounded on bare boards.

Black curtains parted and out stepped a burly man with oily hair the colour of wet slate. He seemed a very jovial chap for one of his profession, grinning all over his face and, rather surprisingly, tucking into a chicken leg with gusto. Closer to, I noticed his bluey, poorly shaved chin and the spots of grease on his tie.

«Hello,» he said brightly.

I made a small bow. «Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Bowler?»

«You do, sir!» he said, wiping his greasy fingers on his coat.

Incredibly, he dropped the chicken leg down on to the counter and rubbed his hands together. «Now what can I do for you?»

I fiddled coyly with my tie-pin. «I was recommended to your predecessors’ excellent firm by a family friend.»

«Ah, yes! We bought the old fellows out! So, you’ve had a bereavement?» His brows drew together and his mouth turned down like some operatic clown. «Aww.»

«Indeed.» I managed to hide my astonishment at his behaviour and made a quick grab for my handkerchief. «My dear wife,» I croaked, stifling a sob.

Bowler inclined his head slightly but still smirked. «Please accept the firm’s sincere condolences, Mr…?»

«Box.»

«Mr Box. I regret to say, however, that we are currently overwhelmed with… um… clients. Dying, you see, being one of the few things that never really goes out of fashion! Ha, ha!»

I blinked and returned my handkerchief to my pocket.

Bowler’s gaze strayed longingly to the greasy meat he had laid on the counter and he wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand. «It would be rather wrong of us to take on your wife’s funeral at this time.»

«Well, I’m… delighted to see you are prospering.»

«Very much so,» grinned Bowler. «I can recommend another firm if you like? They’re really very reasonable.»

«Expense is not the issue.»

«Of course not, sir. Ha, ha. I would further add that they are discreet and most respectful.»

I nodded. «You are very kind.»

Bowler brushed a stray hair from his eyes. «If you just wait here, I will furnish you with the details.»

I smiled weakly. He disappeared back behind the curtain.

I glanced about and then, looking down at the counter, ran a gloved finger down its length, scoring a mahogany-coloured groove in the patina of dust that covered it.

The scrape of curtain rings announced Bowler’s return. He handed me a bit of paper upon which he’d written the name of another firm in a bold hand. The black ink was smudged by his greasy thumb-print.

I thanked him for his kindness.

«Not at all, sir. Good day.»

Then, without a second thought, he picked up the chicken leg and sank his teeth into it. I made my way out. Bowler watched me until I was through the door. Through the frosted pane I distinctly saw him wave.

I stepped out on to the street and crossed the road, pausing under a shady lime tree. The state of the counter alone told me that the firm of Mr Bowler was not prospering. So why had he turned down my business and recommended a rival? And, more revealingly, why had he signally failed to comment on the fact that, despite my recent «bereavement», I was dressed head to toe in white linen?

Just then, a loud creaking close by drew my attention and I stepped closer to the tree so as to remain unobserved. I realized that I was at the entrance to the undertaker’s yard. As I watched, both the rickety gates swung open and the dog-cart rattled through and on to the street. At the reins was a hard-faced fellow in a rust-coloured coat with a great scar across his nose.

In the back of the cart lay a long wooden crate of similar dimensions to a coffin. I could see that it had some kind of shipping label plastered over its planking.

I strolled from my hiding place as nonchalantly as I could and managed to get myself into the path of the cart as it clattered into the road. Scar-Face glared at me. I doffed my hat.

«I do beg your pardon. Could you direct me to the underground station?»

He scowled at me for what seemed like a full minute before grudgingly jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Whipping up the horse, the vehicle lurched ahead.

«Most kind,» I rejoined, stepping out of its path before it ran me down.

For a brief moment I was aware of nothing but the label shuddering its way into the distance.

Then I crossed to the pavement, made my way past the yard and didn’t look behind me until I had reached the station. Once there, I stood with my back to the gingerbread-brown tiles, deep in thought. According to that shipping label the crate was heading for Naples.

That afternoon, I found myself standing on the jetty of a grimy wharf in the East End. The day remained unbearably humid and the tarry black warehouses loomed over me like overcoated giants. As I watched, another crate was hauled up from a small rowing boat.

It was a scene far from the dreamy river-scapes of old man Monet. A noxious haze drifted over the drear Thames, insinuating its way like smoke into the nearest doorway where three stout fellows and the even-stouter Delilah now dragged the crate. I followed at a distance and doffed my straw hat. Respect for the dead, do you see, because inside that narrow splintering box were the mortal remains of the unfortunate Jocelyn Poop, would-be lion of the foreign office now little more than ten stones of rapidly deteriorating flesh.

The interior of the warehouse was dim. I stepped back into the queasy green shadows of the gas-lamps as Delilah planted her feet firmly on the floor and, jemmy in hand, began to wrench the planks from the improvised coffin.

«’Ave ’im hart hin just ha jiffy, sir,» she grunted, tossing broken planking over her shoulder. Her three thickset fellow Domestics, meanwhile, prepared the butcher’s slab on to which Poop was to be conveyed.

Melted ice was already pooling about Delilah’s boots and I heard it cracking and splintering as though in a gin-glass as the brutish female began to lift Poop’s body out by the shoulders.

«Cor! What ha stink!» cackled Delilah. «They don’t know ’ow to pack hem, those bleedin’ heye-ties, do they sir?»

I clamped my glove to my mouth and shook my head. The stench was vile and almost overpowering. Hastily, I gestured to the Domestics to get on with it and, within a moment or two, the dead man lay before me, his skin waxy, pockets of ice plastering the soaked fabric of his linen suit. There seemed nothing much to be gleaned from the reasonably intact torso. Poop’s head, however, was quite a different matter. It was little more than a football-shaped outrage, black with congealed blood and matted with weed-like hair.

Stepping gingerly forward I peered at the gory mess and risked taking away the glove from my mouth.

«Contents of the clothing, Delilah,» I barked.

«Right haway, sir.» She returned to the wharf to collect the rest of the delivery.

I nodded towards the other Domestics. «Get me a jug of water and a scrubbing brush.»

One of them nodded in acquiescence. By the time Delilah returned with a small leather satchel, I had cleaned up Poop’s shattered noggin somewhat, exposing a hook nose and a rather unprepossessing moustache. Above the bridge of the nose, the whole of the forehead had been stoved in.

«It was more than a cosh that did this,» I mused to myself. Taking up the jug, I poured water into the wound. Particles of skin and brain matter floated away over Poop’s cheeks in ghastly rivulets like congealed crusts of oil-paint.

I bent closer, holding my breath against the stench of corruption. Anticipating my needs, Delilah stepped forward with a lantern that I took from her fat hand. There was something very odd about the wound in Poop’s head.

I probed with my fingers for some little time then, sucking my teeth thoughtfully, stepped away from the corpse and folded my arms.

«Delilah, I should be most awfully grateful if you could fetch me some plaster of Paris.»

«Plaster of Paris, sir?»

«Yes. Though where you’ll lay your hands on some all the way out here…»

She smiled her dreadful smile and gave a little bow. She was back within twenty minutes. As I said the Domestics were without peer.

While the others prepared the mixture, covering themselves in floury clouds in the process, I laid out the contents of Poop’s pockets that had been thoughtfully documented by the Neapolitan coppers. It was a sad little bundle. A daguerreotype of some ugly tart — probably his fiancée, two tickets to Rigoletto dated the night of his disappearance and a quantity of soggy paperwork, all depressingly mundane. I searched in vain for any reference to VC. What had his note said? «K to V.C.?» Sounded like a chess move. People do play these agonizingly long-winded games over continents and decades. «K» corresponding to «King» … but to «V.C.»? Could be an accumulation of medals. Knight of the Garter to Victoria Cross? No, no. Nonsense. Perhaps those opera tickets? Verdi’s Cabal? Was there some link to the renowned tunesmith and his Rigoletto? Had Poop been done to death by a vengeful hunchback dwarf?

I decided to leave it there for the time being (a good idea as you can probably tell) and turned to the bowl of wet plaster prepared for me by the Domestics. I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves and then carried the mixture over to the slab. With Delilah and one of her pals holding Poop’s shattered head steady, I carefully poured the plaster into the great gaping wound. After setting down the bowl I smoked a cheroot and waited for the stuff to dry.

It is not a pleasant thing to make a mould from a fellow’s dead bonce but between us we managed to prise the set plaster from the sticky ooze of Poop’s skull. I turned the impression upwards and dragged the lantern towards it.

«Ah!» I ejaculated. «Do you see it? Do you see it?»

Delilah ambled closer and screwed up her eyes at the plaster impression made by the object that someone had so unsportingly smashed into Jocelyn Poop’s brain.

«Well, Hi’ll retire to Bedlam!» breathed Delilah. «Hit’s a face!»