Necrophenia (13 page)

I watched the vision as she spoke and tried to get some measure of her. If she was not the Mother of God – and it seemed a fair bet that she was not – then what? A demon, perhaps, clothed in false beauty? That sounded reasonable, considering that she promised death. Alien? No, I wasn’t going for alien. Nor fairy, although there was much of the fairy about her. I noted that I had not noted any evidence of wings, fairy-like, angelic or demonic. This lack of wings might have been significant. But then again-

‘Are you falling asleep?’ the vision asked of me. ‘Because if I’m keeping you up, as it were, it might be better if I just put you down, as it were, and have done with it.’

‘No, no, no,’ I said to the vision. ‘I’m all ears, me.’

‘Then I will continue. As I have said, a dark cloud of something has settled upon the Earth. A choking lifeless cloud. And those who can sense its presence are doing all they can to engage it in battle and defeat it.’

Mr Ishmael, I thought. But I didn’t speak his name.

‘Pongo Perbright,’ said the vision. ‘A hero, a noble man, a magical sacrifice. A man torn, for, as one who knew and understood what was expected of him and what his fate should have been, he became a tortured soul. He roared and raged and would have done harm to himself and others had he not been visited by a powerful magician who offered him a proposition. This powerful magician was an alchemist, and he possessed the method of transforming base metal into gold. And he offered this formula – for it is a formula – to Pongo.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘If you possess the secret of transforming base metal into gold, why would you share that secret with anyone else?’

‘Only because they might possess something even more valuable that they would be willing to exchange.’

‘And what would that be?’ I asked.

‘A soul,’ said the vision. ‘A warrior soul, a noble soul – the soul of a magical sacrifice.’

‘But surely Pongo wouldn’t have traded. He knew what he was and how important his sacrifice was.’

‘Indeed, but this alchemist was a most persuasive talker. He spoke in honeyed words to the poor, tortured soul that was Pongo Perbright. He convinced Pongo that he had been forgotten, cast aside, that he was no longer needed.’

‘I don’t think Pongo would have believed that if he was really noble,’ I said.

‘Well spoken,’ said the vision. ‘And indeed he would not. So the alchemist persuaded him that he could do so much good with the gold that he could create that God would take him directly into the Kingdom of Heaven as a reward.’

‘But he was to sign away his soul in exchange for this? That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Who do you think it really was who spoke these honeyed words?’

‘I suspect it was the Devil,’ I said.

‘And your suspicion is correct. And so Pongo Perbright signed away his soul. And in exchange he was given a magical formula. He set up an alchemical laboratory right here in this very room. The formula is a complicated affair and requires certain ingredients. Ingredients that can only be found within a human being.

‘In order to achieve noble ends, he was going to have to force himself to commit evil crimes. Naturally, at first he baulked at this. But the evil alchemist, the Black Alchemist, we shall call him, returned to him again and again, reminding him of the contract that he had signed with his own blood. And reminding him of what great good he could achieve once he had perfected transmutation.

‘And under such pressure, that noble man-’

‘He murdered women.’ I said. ‘Six women. In Acton and Chiswick. I read of these murders – a modern-day Ripper, the press called him. Pongo Perbright committed these murders?’

‘Yes,’ said the vision and nodded. ‘And he ground up the parts required and created the philosopher’s stone, that agent which affords the transmutation of the base into the perfect. Alchemy, you see, is a magical principle, a philosophical principle. And this principle is that all things have the capability to achieve perfection. It is a philosophical concept. A man might perhaps achieve perfection by godly acts. As for minerals, the basest of metals, the lowly iron ones, crave in their way to achieve perfection in the shape of becoming that most perfect of metals, gold. The philosopher’s stone is the agent of this transmutation from baseness to perfection.’

I nodded thoughtfully. Captain Lynch had explained all this to me, although he had dwelled more on the making-of-gold part of things rather than the philosophical concepts.

‘And so,’ continued the vision, ‘through a great and unholy ceremony he brought the process to perfection. Within a great crucible he placed a pound of rough iron ore. And onto this he poured a single grain of the powder he had ground from the philosopher’s stone he had created. A single grain. That was all that was required. And there was a great flash of light. Because there is always a great flash of light when something terrific is about to (or is) occurring. And whoosh!’

‘Whoosh?’ I said.

‘Whoosh,’ said the vision. ‘The iron ore had become perfect gold. The thing that was base, almost without value, crude, reached perfection. Whoosh.’

‘Whoosh,’ I said. ‘And is that the end of the story?’

‘Well, it is in a manner of speaking.’

‘And so where is Pongo Perbright now? Did the Devil take him?’

‘No,’ said the vision. ‘The Devil didn’t take him.’

‘So he bested the Devil,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t happen very often.’

The vision made a doubtful face and shook her head slowly and sadly.

‘So what did happen?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said the vision, ‘he’s right here. Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ And she wafted aside with a dramatic flourish to reveal, behind her, the figure of a man who had, for all I knew, been standing there unnoticed all along. And this figure of a man was Pongo Perbright. Or so I assumed it to be.

But Pongo Perbright was not going to answer any of my questions.

He just stood there with a stupefied look of surprise upon his face, saying nothing and moving not at all.

‘The base transformed into perfection,’ said the vision, ‘at the touch of the magical dust from the philosopher’s stone. He touched the gold he had created and-’

‘He turned into gold,’ I said. For there indeed was Pongo Perbright. And he was a statue made of gold.

‘Whoa,’ I said. And, ‘Mercy me.’ But it was true as true.

And I approached the golden Pongo on what I must confess were rather wobbly legs. And I did not touch Pongo, oh no, because for all I knew that might have turned me into a golden statue. ‘Whoa,’ I said once more and slowly. ‘That is mighty weird.’

‘Mighty weird?’ said the vision, hovering close. ‘I tell you a story like that and show you a man who has turned into solid gold and the best you can manage is “mighty weird”.’

‘Mighty weird is a lot,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen many things in my life that I would describe as mighty weird. Well, I hadn’t until recently, anyway. But it is mighty weird. It really is.’

‘Would you like those to be recorded as your final words, then?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I would not. You’re not really going to kill me, are you?’

‘I have no choice. You have entered the sacred space. You have encountered me in my true form. You must die. There is no other option.’

‘There must be another option,’ I said. ‘Think hard – I bet you could come up with one.’

‘Knees up, Mother Brown,’ said the vision.

‘And I don’t think you’re a very convincing cockney,’ I said. ‘You said “knees up, Mother Brown” before.’

‘I can say it as often as I like. So, explosion was it, if I recall?’

‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘No, please. You have told me the tale of Pongo Perbright – and I admit that it is beyond mighty weird – but you haven’t told me about yourself. Who are you? If you’re not the Virgin Mary, then who?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said the vision.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘what harm can it do? You’re clearly a very magical being possessed of wonderful mystical powers. I’ll just bet you have lived a fascinating life. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to share a little of it with me?’

‘Well,’ said the vision, ‘perhaps not. Perhaps just a little.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I’ll tell my tale my way,’ said the vision, ‘if you don’t mind.’ And she stamped her foot. Although it didn’t reach the floor.

‘Then please do,’ I said. ‘I am so eager to hear it.’

‘It is this-aways,’ spake the vision. ‘I arrived too late to save Pongo Perbright. I was alerted to the deal he had made and I rushed as fast as I could to aid him, but I was too late. And so I impersonated him, for the sake of his sister, but she was not convinced by my impersonation and she called you in. And of course you had never met Pongo Perbright before, so you didn’t know what he looked like. So I gave you an impression of what you thought he must look like and I did the same for your brother here.’ And she gestured with her thumb over her shoulder, to where my brother still sat upon the bed.

‘I thought you would go away and not return. I have set up my headquarters here, you see. I work at night. I am changing things bit by bit: this house, a piece at a time, and then the whole world.’

‘Changing it?’ I said. ‘How and why? Who are you?’

‘I am the Zeitgeist,’ said the Zeitgeist. ‘I am the Spirit of the Age. I am the Spirit of the Nineteen-Sixties.’

‘Whoa,’ I said once more, and in some surprise. ‘So there really is a Spirit of the Age. It is an actual physical thing.’

‘One is born in every decade. Each decade is different from the last, you notice. No two are ever the same.’

‘But surely it is down to Man to determine how a decade works out. You’re not telling me that Mankind is just a bunch of puppets with beings like you pulling the strings?’

‘There are many answers to many questions,’ replied the Zeitgeist, ‘and no two are the same. If Mankind was allowed full rein over a decade, there is no telling what kind of mess it would get itself into.’

‘So you are perfecting this decade the way you feel it should be perfected.’

‘Absolutely,’ said the Zeitgeist. ‘The Nineteen-fifties were a terrible mess: all that powdered egg and Jimmy Handley on the wireless set. And rock ’n’ roll – the Devil’s music. I’ll put a stop to all that, I can tell you.’

‘Put a stop to rock ’n’ roll?’

‘There’s no telling how it might develop. No, I am going to calm things down considerably. I am going to re-establish the work ethic, hence the cockney persona. Cockneys are hard workers, with hearts of gold and love for their old mothers, everyone knows that. So that is what the sixties will be remembered for. Coming generations will read of the sixties as a sober decade when everyone knuckled down and worked very hard, eschewing loud music, strong ales and strange drugs.’

‘Right,’ I said, slowly. And I didn’t feel wrong about saying it.

‘And now you know everything. And so you must die.’

‘Not everything, surely,’ I said.

‘How did you know my name is Shirley?’ And then the Zeitgeist fell upon me. And there was a really blinding light.

A terrible, terrible, terrible light, it was.

Really terrible.

And what a bright light it was.

And the bright light grew brighter still.

Then suddenly it died away.

And I looked up, expecting to see the heavily bearded face of my creator, but to my surprise and considerable relief saw instead the face of my brother, grinning down at me.

‘I’m not dead,’ I observed. ‘Unless you’re dead, too.’

‘I’m not dead,’ said Andy, ‘and neither are you.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘I clocked her,’ said Andy. ‘Right on the head, as hard as I could.’

‘You clocked the Zeitgeist? With what?’

‘With this clock,’ said Andy, displaying same, ‘from the bedside table. As hard as I could, wallop.’ And he mimed a mighty swinging and clocking with the clock.

‘Is she dead?’

‘I certainly hope so.’

Andy looked down and I looked down and there lay the Zeitgeist, all prone on the floor.

‘You killed her,’ I said, in scarce but a whisper. ‘You killed the Spirit of the Age. The Spirit of the Sixties.’

‘Well, she was going to kill you, And I couldn’t have that.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, thanks,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much for saving my life.’ And I climbed to my feet and did dustings down and gazed at the fallen Zeitgeist.

‘She was very beautiful,’ I said, rather sadly.

‘Yes, but she was going to kill you. And think about it, Tyler – did you hear what she had in mind for the nineteen-sixties? All that business of eschewing loud music, strong ales and strange drugs? A decade of the cockney work ethic?’

‘You do have a point,’ I agreed. ‘But without her, there’s no telling what might happen to the nineteen-sixties.’

‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take.’

‘Well,’ I said. And I looked down at the lovely figure once more. ‘I hope you haven’t done something, you know, cosmic, or something. Changed the course of history, or something.’

‘Hm,’ went Andy, ‘you might have a point there.’

And then the Zeitgeist gave a little moan.

‘She is not dead,’ I cried.

And Andy leaned down. And clocked her again. Repeatedly and hard.

And there was a sort of twinkling of fairy-dust and the Zeitgeist faded all away.

‘She is now,’ said Andy. And he replaced the clock upon the bedside table. ‘And without any evidence of a crime, who is to say that one was ever committed?’

I looked long and hard at Andy. For all his madness, he did at times display a great deal of wisdom. And this was one of those times.

‘My only regret-’ said Andy.

‘Oh,’ said I. ‘You have a regret?’

‘I do,’ said he, ‘and my only regret is this: that I never had the opportunity to employ my disguise, which, you will agree, is a blinder. But now no one will ever know that I had it on, because it was never employed.’

‘That is regrettable,’ I agreed. ‘Do you think we should go home now?’

‘Well,’ said Andy. And he made a thoughtful face. ‘My thoughts are of Lola.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘We must wake her up and tell her that we have solved the case.’

‘Those weren’t precisely my thoughts. My thoughts were of the killing-two-birds-with-one-stone persuasion.’

‘Go on,’ said I, intrigued.

‘Well, firstly, I do not think that Lola would really want to see her brother all turned to gold like that. That might really upset her.’

‘I don’t really think she liked her brother that much,’ I said. ‘I think she’ll be glad to see the back of him, so she can claim whatever family inheritance there is. I suspect that we were actually called in to prove that the brother was a fake so that she could have the real one declared either missing or dead.’

‘Very wise of you,’ said Andy. ‘These were my thoughts exactly. But I don’t think we need to bother her with this golden fellow. Which is where the other bird that we can kill with the single stone comes in. We have not been paid, and she pleads poverty. So why do we not just take away this frightful turned-to-gold brother? Then we can quietly have him melted down and cast into ingots that we will then sell on the gold market. I got the sense that he is now composed of very pure gold. So we get paid, and at no expense to Lola.’

‘You are wisdom personified,’ I said. ‘And altruism, also. Let’s get this fellow shifted.’

Pongo Perbright was not easily shifted. A man made of gold weighs a great deal more than a man made of flesh and blood. And neither of us were particularly keen to touch him with our bare hands in case there was still some alchemical magic lurking about that might just turn us into gold. So we wrapped him up in an eiderdown and dragged him.

It was a hassle bouncing him down the stairs, but once outside the house, amidst all the slush, it was relatively easy to slide him along the pavement.

But it was a long haul and we were both quite tired when we got home. So we left Pongo in the sitting room with the eidey over him and took ourselves to bed.

I had a good lie-in in the morning. I always like a good lie-in after a strenuous or exciting night. And I had earned this good lie-in and this good lie-in would probably have lasted until beyond lunchtime had my brother not rather rudely woken me up.

‘Up and at it!’ cried my brother loudly into my ear.

I did the, ‘What?’ and, ‘Who?’ and, ‘Why?’ and damn near wet myself.

‘We have to get a move on,’ said Andy, shaking me all about. ‘We have to get Pongo off to Hatton Garden to arrange for the melting down. I’ll borrow Captain Blood’s wheelbarrow, the one he uses for shifting contraband. But I need you to give me a hand with Pongo. We can take him on the Underground.’

I, now awake, said, ‘what?’ once more. And, ‘On the Underground? ’

‘I can’t afford a taxi – can you?’

No, I couldn’t afford a taxi.

‘Breakfast first, then,’ I said.

So we both went down for breakfast.

And when we got down for breakfast, there was our mother, all cross, with her pinafore on and her hands on her hips. ‘Which one of you beastly boys left the sitting-room windows open last night?’ she asked of us.

And Andy and I shook our heads.

‘Well, one of you did and until that one owns up, there will be no breakfast.’

I had encountered this logic before and so I owned up immediately. ‘It was me,’ I said, although it certainly was not.

‘Well, at least you are being honest now and so I will forgive you and you can have an extra sausage with your breakfast.’

Andy looked daggers at me. But that was his tough luck.

‘If you leave the window open, you let the cold in and the warm out. And although there’s nothing of value in the living room, apart from the Peerage brass companion set, there is an increase in crime nowadays, so we should all be vigilant.’

And at this I looked at my brother once more.

And he looked at me.

And as one, we both dashed into the sitting room.

The window was now closed. And a fire blazed in the grate. And the brass companion set, the one with the galleon in full sail upon it, was where it always was, right there in the hearth. And there was the visitors’ chair and there was the Persian pouffe.

But as to the golden statue that was Pongo Perbright? It was not to be seen. It was not there at all.

Andy groaned and I groaned with him. We had been robbed in the night. Someone, or someones, had forced open the sitting-room window and made away with our golden booty.

‘I don’t believe this,’ I said. And I fell to my knees, most dramatically. ‘This can’t be true. It’s so unfair. It can’t be true. It can’t.’

‘Calm yourself down,’ commanded Andy. ‘Are we not detectives? These burglars have chosen the wrong sitting room to break into.’

‘You think?’

And now Andy dropped to his knees also. And he began sniffing around. And then he pointed and said, ‘There and there and there and there.’

‘What’s there?’ I asked him.

‘Footprints,’ said Andy, ‘deep, heavy footprints driven into the green baize carpet. And they’re not our footprints, nor Dad’s, nor Mum’s – although they do bear some resemblance to hers.’

‘How?’

‘Because they are the imprints of women’s shoes, but too big, you see, and too heavily imprinted. They are the footprints of-’

‘Cross-dressing zombies?’ I asked him.

‘Got it in one,’ he replied.