The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (25 page)

‘You
are a man of your word,’ said Belmont. ‘I certainly would
not
have eaten
my beard.’

‘Perhaps
not
willingly,’
said Mr Bell, his face both pale and grey.

‘You
missed a bit of the hatband, ‘said Belmont. ‘And might I enquire — who is this
criminal mastermind who calls himself Darwin the Monkey? Carlos the Jackal,
[15]
I’ve heard of— he’s one of those anarchists
that the princess is a-feared of — and Hopp the Frog-Boy. And I once met a
parrot called Peter, but that, as they say, is quite another story.’

Mr
Bell swallowed the last of the hatband. It was a matter of principle, really.
Darwin the monkey indeed. But somehow he could find no cause to doubt it. The
Patent Post-Cogitative Prognosticator could, had it been simply randomly
generating names, come up with anything, even Hopp the Frog-Boy at a push. But
it had come up with Darwin, so Darwin it somehow must be.

But
how? And Mr Bell wiped boater from his chin. ‘Ah,’ said he, of a sudden. ‘I
have it.’ And he flung aside his knife and fork and pushed his plate away.

He
and Belmont were sharing a table in the servants ‘quarters. There was much
busyness here, much straightening of uniforms and ironing of clothes.

‘What
do you have?’ asked Belmont. ‘Please tell me it is the whereabouts of the
stolen item.’

‘That
is what I am thinking,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Let us ask your wonderful machine
where the reliquary is at this moment.’

‘Brilliant,’
said the tiny man. ‘I wish I had thought of that.’

Cameron
Bell made a certain face.

Belmont
made it also.

And
then Belmont shook his head and said, ‘Sadly, it cannot be done.’

Cameron
Bell asked why this was and Belmont told him why.

‘The
engine has to recalibrate itself,’ he said, ‘and that takes time. And before
you ask, a very great deal of time —twenty-five years, I’d say, give or take a
month.’

‘Then
I shall have to apply logic to this situation.’ Cameron Bell drained the pint
pot of porter that Belmont had recommended as the perfect complement to his
boater.

‘The
I, that is me here, did not commit the crime, and as I cannot be in two places
at the same time, it therefore follows that there must be another I, which is
identical but not the same as the one here. Are you following this?’

‘I am
probably way ahead of you,’ said Belmont. ‘Your reasoning goes— ‘Please let me
say it,’ said Mr Bell, ‘for I am the detective.’ ‘The
I
that is
you,
or
the other
I?’

Mr
Bell’s temper was growing short, but he kept his anger in check.

‘My
reasoning goes,’ said he, ‘that if this other
me
is so very
me
that
his fingerprints are identical to mine — that he
is me,
in fact — then
I
have every reason to believe that
he
would act as
I
would act
and that
he
would carry the reliquary off to a place and leave it for
me
to collect.’

‘The
two yous are working together, then, is it?’ asked Belmont.

‘I
know
exactly
where
I
would take it,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And if I
am wrong I will gladly eat my jacket.’

Belmont
now bounced up and down. Which put Mr Bell in mind of Darwin and set him to
wondering many things about his little friend.

‘Oh,
do tell,’ said Belmont. ‘I have never before seen a man eat a jacket. A
flowerpot, once, I recall, and upon another occasion— ‘I have to go,’ said
Cameron Bell, rising from his seat. ‘I have a theory regarding this. A fanciful
theory, certainly, but a theory nonetheless. If I am correct, all will shortly
be explained to me.

‘Well,
lucky old you,’ said Belmont. ‘I for one do not think I could survive much more
of your company. Mystery and chaos surround you like false friends who have
learned of your lottery win. You will eat your jacket if you’re wrong, though,
won’t you?’

‘I
promise I will,’ said Mr Bell.

But Mr Bell did
not always tell the truth. When he returned to the royal steam tug and gently
awakened the helmsman, this fellow enquired of Mr Bell whether he had, as
promised, spoken with Princess Pamela and broached the subject of a pay rise
and a job for his eldest son.

‘I
certainly did,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘She said she would think about it. She said
also that you were to hurry me back to the shore as speedily as possible.’

‘As
speedily as can be,’ said the helmsman. ‘I notice that you have your bag and
sword-stick, but fear that you have forgotten your fine straw boater.’

‘As
speedily as can be,’ said Mr Bell.

The
helmsman stoked up the boiler, diddled with stopcocks and set the tug in
motion.

Once
more upon dry land, Mr Bell tipped the helmsman and went upon his way. It was a
long walk back to the hotel, for the driver who had conveyed him to the steam
tug’s mooring had long since departed with his cart. Mr Bell was forced to
trudge the road. A long and winding road was this, which led through deep-red
forest. Odd things swung about in the trees, calling their curious calls. Other
things that might well have been predatory scampered through the undergrowth
and the detective put a certain spring into his step.

As he
marched along, he pondered on the strangeness of it all. He could only draw one
single conclusion and this was one he did not like at all, for it was one that
could surely be the cause of all kinds of chaos.

Something
shrieked in the forest and Mr Bell hurried on.

The
New Dorchester gleamed in the Martian sunshine. Lackeys on ladders flicked red
dust from the stately walls of white whilst others laboured to remove a large
red ‘A’ that someone had painted upon a wall. The work of the dreaded
anarchists, Mr Bell supposed. The hotel’s steam charabanc had been similarly
disfigured.

The
loafing boys once more approached Mr Bell to offer him their personal services.
Mr Bell pushed past them and entered the hotel.

The
detective was somewhat damp about the brow and other regions, too, when finally
he reached the reception desk. A gaunt and dark-faced fellow stood behind it,
who looked up from his doings and glanced at Mr Bell. Then stiffened and stared
and cried, ‘Oh my!’

‘Apologies
for my appearance,’ said the dusty and bedraggled detective. ‘A rather long
walk back.’

The
gaunt and dark-faced fellow gawped at Mr Bell, then glanced towards the lift,
then back once more to Mr Cameron Bell. ‘But …’ said he. ‘How did you … ? I
do not understand.’

‘Would
I be correct in thinking that
I
have already gone up to my room?’ said
Mr Bell.

The
dark-faced fellow nodded gormlessly.

‘My
twin brother, Sam,’ said Mr Bell, the lie springing easily to his lips. ‘He is
always getting up to such tricks. He took my room key from your peg, I suppose.

‘Yes
indeed,’ said the dark—faced fellow. ‘Your twin brother Sam? Ah, yes, I
understand.’

‘Is
there a spare key?’ asked Mr Bell.
‘I
would like to surprise
him.’

The
dark-faced fellow nodded then went to seek it out. Upon his return, Mr Bell
snatched the key from his hand and made off with haste towards the lift.

When
shortly thereafter he stood before the door to his hotel room, the detective
was breathing heavily. He pressed his ear to the door’s panelling and hearing
nothing pushed the key into the lock.

Turned
it and flung the door open.

All
was as it had been, though a maid had tidied the room. But there had certainly
not been that great big brown-paper-covered parcel on the bed before. The one
with the note tucked into its twiney bindings.

Mr
Bell glanced beneath the bed, into the wardrobes, here and there. There was no
one hiding. He sat down on the bed and tapped the parcel. He had absolutely no
doubt as to what it contained. The stolen reliquary. He was very interested,
however, to read what the note that accompanied it had to say.

He took
it up and examined what was on the sheet of paper. The small and neatly written
script was, as he had expected it to be, his own handwriting. Mr Bell took his
pince-nez from their case, as this writing was small, and read aloud the
missive that he held now in a rather shaky hand.

‘“Note
to self,”‘ it began. ‘ “As you are now aware, it was you who stole the
reliquary. You did this in order to foil the evil schemes of Miss Lavinia
Dharkstorrm, an adversary who is proving to be most problematic. You were able
to do this because the you sitting there reading this note and the you who
wrote it are one and the same person, but you inhabit different time frames.
The you who wrote this note travelled back into the past in a time—ship created
by Mr Ernest Rutherford and piloted by Darwin, who masterminded this particular
attempt to foil the evil witch. I told him that it would not work. But he told
me (that is the
you
in the future) that it was his turn to have a go and
as he was pilot his decision was final.

‘“There
have been difficulties —“ ‘ Mr Bell laughed just a little at reading this ‘ “—
and if this particular attempt to alter the past fails, Darwin and I have
agreed that it will be the last. I cannot tell you what you must do with the
reliquary now that it is in your possession. I am hoping you will do something
inspired, because if you do not then things will go very badly for the you that
is me now. Please try very hard not to get me killed this time!”‘

‘
This
time?’
Mr Bell turned over the paper. There was nothing more to be read.

‘You
cannot leave it like
that!’
he cried. ‘I would not leave it like
that!
I would explain a plan. One that was guaranteed to work. I would have
written it all down here. Unless—’

And
here a terrible thought struck Mr Bell.

‘Unless
the actions I am about to take will cause the death of the me from the future.
Oh, calamity.’

A
refrigerated cupboard in the study area was well stocked with champagne. Mr
Bell drew out a bottle and dragged forth its cork. He could not as yet toast success,
but he sorely needed a drink.

As
the contents of the bottle found its way into Mr Bell’s stomach, he gave great
thought to the matter in hand.

‘It
is certainly
not
the way I would have gone about it,’ he said, as he
tossed back champagne. ‘I would have stolen the reliquary from the British
Museum before Miss Dharkstorrm acquired it and hurled it into the deepest
ocean.’ Mr Bell thought of the Martian canals. ‘Well, at least I can dispose of
this one,’ he said.

But
here great problems loomed.

If
the reliquary was not returned to Princess Pamela, the spaceport would be
closed to him and a price put on his head. And if it was not passed to Lavinia
Dharkstorrm she would butcher Darwin most dreadfully. But if it
was
given
to Miss Dharkstorrm, she would reunite it with the other three reliquaries in
an ‘unhallowed place’ and bring about the End of Days when the clock struck
twelve on the thirty-first of December, eighteen ninety-nine.

It
was all something of a dilemma.

Cameron
Bell poured further champagne down his throat. ‘But I am Bell,’ said he, his
voice somewhat slurred now by drink. ‘Cameron Bell, the world’s foremost
consulting detective. If anyone can solve this thing, then I am the one who
can.

The
champagne bottle was empty, so Mr Bell sought out another.

And
he was half the way through that when the great thought hit him.

‘Oh
yes,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Oh yes indeed.’

There
was
a solution to this. A dangerous one, certainly, and one that might
involve the destruction of a great deal of property. But sacrifices sometimes
had to be made, and in a cause such as this, in which so very much was at
stake, there was always likely to be — now what was that term
The Times’
Bioscope
Reviewer had so recently coined? — ah, yes, ‘collateral damage’, that was it.

Mr
Bell held up his champagne glass. It was afternoon now and sunlight slanting
through the casement windows tinged the sweet champagne a bloody red.

The
rather drunken detective took himself off in the company of both bottle and
glass to the desk in the study area and there put pen to paper. He scribbled
away as one possessed, and when he was done reading through what he had
scribbled, he made jottings here and there then pushed aside the paper.

‘Now
that
is what
I
call a
plan!’
said Cameron Bell. ‘And now I shall
take a shower, change my clothes, go down to the lobby and hire the hotel’s
steam charabanc for the day tomorrow, put certain propositions to the loafing
boys outside, then take supper and have an early night. Tomorrow will, I feel,
bring a very big adventure.’