The Brightonomicon

by Robert Rankin

  7

  The Fantastic Adventure of the Foredown Man

  The Foredown Man

  PART I

  ‘He walks,’ said Hugo Rune, in answer to my question. ‘He walks, is what he does. He walks and he walks and he walks.’

  My question had been, ‘Why does he do it?’

  ‘I know that he walks,’ I said.

  It was a misty morning in September. And lest the reader feel that some kind of formula has become evident in the cases that Mr Rune and I had so far solved, let it be said that we were not having our breakfast.

  We had just finished our breakfast. Mr Rune was in his favourite chair, reading my copy of Dead Dames Don’t Do Doggie-Style (A Lazlo Woodbine Thriller) and I was looking out of the window. And it was whilst I was doing this looking out that I had seen him once more.

  The masked walker.

  I had seen him many times, of course. He was, and as far as I am aware still is, a Brighton character. He wears a green anorak and matching trews and sturdy walking boots. A scarf hides the lower portion of his face, a large pair of sunspecs the upper. And he is never to be seen without his gloves. And in this costume he walks, no matter the weather, he walks and he walks and he walks.

  ‘But why does he do it?’ I asked once again.

  ‘How close have you ever been to him?’ Mr Rune asked me in return.

  ‘Very close, as it happens,’ I said. ‘I was in Primark once, and I saw him in there selecting towels for purchase. He was going through the pile, examining each in turn. He was very fastidious. And very, very clean. Everything he wears is immaculately clean.’

  ‘One question for you,’ said Mr Rune, putting aside my paperback.

  I pricked up my ears as best I was able. ‘What question is this?’ I asked.

  ‘Plah!’ cried Mr Rune. ‘The question is this: what were you doing in Primark?’ There was a certain edge to his voice. An edge that could have cut cheese. ‘“Primate” it should more rightly be called,’ he continued.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, I know that you prefer to shop at Harrods, but I needed a new towel and you are a little late with my wages once again.’

  ‘I despair,’ said Mr Rune, despairingly. ‘Have you learned nothing during your time with me?’

  ‘I have learned that it is better not to travel in a cab with you if one has a terror of violence.’

  ‘Quality,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Quality above all. Style to an equal degree. And good taste. Good taste is paramount.’

  ‘Taste is merely a matter of opinion,’ I said, turning away from the window.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Rune. ‘It has been said before, but for your benefit, I will say it again: some things are better than other things and some people are capable of making the distinction. I am one of these people. I, Rune, the Perfect Master, the Earthly Manifestation of the Infinite, the One and Only, the Lord of the Dance—’

  ‘And the Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.’

  ‘Only the once. They never allowed me to play there again.’

  ‘But what about the masked walker?’

  ‘Interesting fellow.’ Hugo Rune took a cigar from his silver case and rolled it thoughtfully beneath his nose. ‘I have observed him, naturally. He never takes the same route twice. He walks all around Brighton and even as far as Henfield, some ten miles to the north. There is a pattern to his perambulations, however. They trace the layout of roads that form the Brightonomicon, the twelve figures that make up the Brighton Zodiac.’

  I shrugged and said, ‘Have you another cigar for me?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘This is my last.’

  ‘I saw three more in your case.’

  ‘My last for now.’

  ‘I am bored,’ I said. ‘It is misty and it is growing cold. Summer is over, we are six cases through your Brighton Zodiac and what do we have to show for it?’

  ‘More than you might think. But we do need another case.’ And Mr Rune took himself over to his big map on the wall. ‘This one, I feel,’ he said, indicating one of the shapes.

  I followed him and peered at the map. ‘The Foredown Man,’ I said.

  ‘Looks rather jolly, doesn’t he?’ Mr Rune made a jolly face. ‘Standing with his feet four-square upon the Old Shoreham Road and his right hand pointing to Hangleton.’

  ‘He might be pointing,’ I said, ‘but that is all he is doing. I bet he would not care to stroll in that direction.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mr Rune asked. And he lit up his cigar.

  ‘Because it is a very dull place,’ I said, fanning away at the smoke that engulfed me. ‘No offence to the good folk of Hangleton, but it is very, very quiet up there. They appear to exist in some kind of nineteen thirties time warp. And I am not talking about Lower Hangleton, where we were involved in a case involving a certain spaniel. I speak of the upper bit, near West Blatchington, where the swells live. They have a saying there: “Nothing happens in Hangleton”, which is obviously the way they like to keep it.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to liven them up a little.’

  ‘They will not take kindly to that.’

  ‘As they have not taken kindly to the plague of petty thievery there that has recently been reported in the gutter press. See this,’ and Mr Rune handed me an envelope.

  It was a rather striking envelope, of topmost-quality paper. I considered that the sender of this envelope probably did not shop at Primark. It was addressed to Mr Rune in copperplate lettering. You could actually smell the ink.

  ‘Crawford’s Radiant Blue,’ said Mr Rune, ‘from Asprey’s.’

  I opened the envelope, took out an elegant card (upon matching stationery) and read what was written thereon: ‘The Earl of Hangleton requests,’ I read, ‘that Sir Hugo Rune attend his garden party. There are certain pressing matters that he wishes to discuss.’

  Hugo Rune nodded.

  ‘Sir Hugo Rune?’ I said.

  ‘It’s an honorific title. I bestowed it in honour of myself. But I know of this Earl of Hangleton – I was a very close friend of his most distinguished ancestor. In fact, we visited the Great Exhibition together. I think we might expect a most lively afternoon, if my powers of reasoning have not deserted me. And of course, they have not.’

  ‘The garden party is today,’ I said, viewing the date.

  ‘Then quality and style will be our watchwords. The Boleskine tweeds for you, I feel, young Rizla.’

  Now, I do have to say that I was rather fond of the Boleskine tweeds. They were green and tweedy, patterned with a tartan of Mr Rune’s personal design, and they came from a quality tailor’s in Savile Row. And they were a four-piece, with waistcoat and matching beret.

  I confess that I was not altogether sure about the beret. Berets had not exactly been ‘hip’ since the nineteen fifties, and then only amongst the French avant-garde, who wore them whilst they rolled naked women about on canvasses for Art.

  And as for my feelings about Art—

  ‘You will wear the beret,’ said Hugo Rune.

  And wear the beret I did.

  And at a little after two, I was forced to flag down a cab. I did not want to do it, but it was simply too far to walk to Hangleton.

  A doddle for the masked walker, perhaps, but not for Mr Rune and me in our quality tweeds.

  The taxi driver’s name was Salvador de Allende Fernandes Mal de Mer and he was no fan of football. He was a passionate follower of croquet, offering his undying allegiance to the Benedictine Bears, who were this year’s World Champs, and whom I myself now supported.

  I chatted with Salvador at length regarding the Bears’ prospects of taking the Inter-World Championships, which were apparently going to be held on Venus the following June.

  Salvador showed no leanings towards metaphysical thought, and when at length we arrived at Hangleton, Mr Rune paid him off without complaint and waved as he drove away.

  I stared in some surprise at Mr Rune. After all, he was carrying his stout stick.

>   ‘You paid,’ I said. ‘And you did not knock him unconscious.’

  ‘Have some sense of decorum, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You are in Upper Hangleton now. I trust you won’t go letting the side down at the garden party.’

  ‘Have no fears on my account,’ I said. ‘I know which hand to hold my knife and fork in.’

  ‘It is “in which hand to hold my knife and fork”.’

  ‘Well, if you know, too, then we will be fine.’

  Mr Rune rolled his eyes and shook his head, but did not choose to employ his stout stick at this particular moment.

  ‘Come then, Rizla,’ he said unto me. ‘Follow on.’

  And so I followed on.

  The weather was most pleasant for the time of year and the rich autumnal colours of the conker trees made a striking contrast with the pale blue sky.

  I followed on into Hangleton Park, towards stately Hangleton Manor. It looked to me to be exactly as a manor house should be: Georgian, mellow red-bricked, ivy-hung and slatily slated. It was a quality dwelling. It had class. Before it were parked a number of swank automobiles upon which lounged liveried chauffeurs puffing Park Drives and discussing the sex lives of the Windsors (in muted and respectful tones, of course).

  ‘I am going to buy myself a gaff like this,’ I said to Mr Rune, as we crunched our way up the gravelly gravelled drive.

  ‘Admirable,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Are you hoping for a win on the football pools?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am trusting to that contract I signed for you in blood. It promised worldly wealth, I recall, and long before I write up the account of our adventures together, which you are convinced will become a number-one bestseller.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘In the small print,’ I said.

  ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I never read the small print.’

  At length, we paused before the big front door.

  ‘This is one of those places,’ I said to Mr Rune.

  ‘One of which places?’ Mr Rune had a certain sigh in his voice.

  ‘One of those country-house places,’ I said, ‘like in Agatha Christie’s novels, or the Sherringford Hovis Mysteries written by P. P. Penrose. Oh,’ I said, ‘or like Cluedo. If there is a murder here today, I bet it will be in the library and that Colonel Mustard will do it with the length of lead pipe.’

  ‘Rizla,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Yes?’ said I.

  ‘Put a Primark sock in it!’

  Mr Rune rapped upon the big front door with his stout stick and presently it was opened. He flourished his invitation and we were granted admittance.

  ‘Butler,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘You can tell by his get-up.’

  ‘Mister Cutler at your service, sir,’ said the butler. ‘If you will kindly walk this way.’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ said Mr Rune.

  And I did not.

  We followed Cutler (the butler) through elegant rooms that wore family portraits upon their pastelly painted walls and then through big French windows to lawns that lay beyond, lawns upon which gilded youth mingled with old money.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Rune, approvingly. ‘Ah yes, indeed, most splendid.’

  I viewed the gilded youth and wondered at them. So that was what young toffs looked like, was it? I had never encountered them before. They were clearly in a class of their own, different from other Brightonians. Although it had to be said that there was not a distinct Brighton type. Brighton was overly cosmopolitan and played host to all types, from the pirates of Moulsecoomb and the wide boys of Whitehawk to the back-seat drivers of Kemp Town and the sporting celebrities of Hove (which was pretty much Brighton – you could not really seen the join).

  But the gilded youth of the Upper Hangleton area.

  Well.

  Well, for one thing, I recognised many of them – I had seen their photos in the society pages of the Argus, red-faced and mostly drunk, with their arms about the naked shoulders of some damn fine-looking women. And all of them closely related, as is generally the way with such folk. I recognised the Honourable Nigel Fairborough-Countless, heir to the Countless millions; Lord Edward Marzipan-Fudge, heir to the hundreds and thousands; Lord Burberry Spaniel-Fondler, heir of the dog that bit him; and Lord Lucus Lapp-Dancer, heir on a G-string. Then there was Lord Henry Myle-Hie, British Heirways – club class, of course. Not to mention—

  A smart young fellow-me-lad in a suit not unlike to my own detached himself from the gabbling throng of gilded youth and came a-jigging over to us, a glass of Pimm’s in one hand and a crustless sandwich in the other.

  ‘Sir Hugo,’ he said, in the accent known as Posh. ‘It is you, isn’t it? It has to be, for I am related to everyone else here. Excepting the butler, of course.’ And he laughed. Although I did not feel the need to do so myself.

  ‘I must therefore have the pleasure of addressing Quentin Vambery-Greystoke, Fifth Earl of Hangleton,’ said Mr Rune, bowing from the neck up.

  ‘Your servant, sir,’ and the Fifth Earl bowed also, dropping his sandwich and spilling his Pimm’s. ‘You must pardon my clumsiness,’ he said in an apologetic yet still posh tone. ‘Generations of inbreeding. Still, it’s better than being a commoner, isn’t it? And who is this commoner with you, by the way?’

  ‘My acolyte, Rizla,’ said Mr Rune. ‘And trusted confidant.’

  ‘Loyal servant, eh?’ The Fifth Earl tapped at his upturned nose, nearly dislodging his monocle. ‘Do you want to shoo him out of the way to wait with the chauffeurs?’

  ‘He stays with me,’ said Mr Rune, which I appreciated.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘perhaps I will go and wait with the chauffeurs.’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Then I will have a drink,’ I said. ‘What is there?’

  The Fifth Earl raised a coiffeured eyebrow. ‘Plenty in the drinkies tent,’ said he, and he indicated same.

  ‘I will bring you something,’ I said to Mr Rune and left him chatting with Quentin, the Fifth Earl of Hangleton, who, I have to say in all honesty, I was not too taken with.

  I suppose it was obvious that my face did not fit there – it had a chin on it, for one thing – but I was prepared to make the best of things, especially regarding the matter of the free drinks.

  And so I entered the drinkies tent.

  And it was there that I saw her.

  She was surely the most beautiful young woman that I had ever seen in my life. She had long golden hair, and her eyes were blue and her lashes long. She wore a flowery frock and sunlight shone upon her, though I do not know how this could be inside the tent. She was sipping a long glass of something through lips that I desperately wanted to kiss. And I knew that I was in love.

  ‘Well, helllllllo,’ I said, in my finest Terry Thomas.

  She looked at me rather blankly.

  ‘Heeeelo,’ I said once more. But I got it right this time – it was not Terry Thomas, but rather Lesley Phillips.

  ‘Heeeelo to you,’ she said with the voice of an angel.

  ‘My name is Rizla,’ I said. ‘I am the … er … business associate of Sir Hugo Rune.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the beauty. ‘Is he here? Would you introduce me?’

  ‘I do not know your name,’ I said.

  ‘It’s Kelly,’ she said. ‘Kelly Anna Sirjan.’

  ‘A very beautiful name.’

  ‘So will you introduce me to Sir Hugo? My cousin Quentin says that he is the greatest poet, adventurer, swordsman, philosopher, philanthropist, exorcist and problem-solver extraordinaire of this or any other age.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I wonder how your cousin came by this intelligence.’

  ‘I think he read it on the flyer that was recently pushed through his letterbox. It offered cheap rates to members of the aristocracy who needed problems solving. It was delivered, I understand, by a curious chap in an anorak, with dark glasses and a scarf around his face.’

  I sighed.

  Very deeply.
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  ‘What saddens you?’ asked Kelly Anna Sirjan.

  ‘The way that I never see the obvious coming,’ I said. ‘However.’

  ‘However?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the situation is this: Sir Hugo is a very busy man, what with all the poetry-writing and adventuring and sword-fighting, philosophising, exorcising and problem-solving. Not to mention the philanthropy.’

  Kelly Anna Sirjan did not mention the philanthropy.

  ‘Which is why he employs me exclusively in the capacity to – how shall I put this? – vet folk who wish to speak to him, which is inevitably a life-changing experience. The meeting of him, I mean. He insists that I gain – how shall I put this? – intimate knowledge of those who wish to have such a life-changing experience. Would you care for another drink?’

  ‘Oh, yes please – a large G and T.’

  ‘I will return with it in a moment.’

  *

  I took myself up to the bar in the drinkies tent. Behind this bar stood a smartly dressed barman: white tuxedo, pink bow tie, caste mark on his forehead beneath his natty turban.

  ‘Good afternoon, sahib,’ said this barman, bowing with exaggerated politeness. ‘How might I be helping you?’

  I gazed upon the swarthy son of the Raj. ‘Fange,’ I said. ‘It is you.’

  ‘Blessings be upon you, sahib, and upon your memsab also.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Fange, it is me.’

  ‘Oh, so it is,’ said Fangio. ‘Pint of Old Antifreeze, would it be?’

  ‘I will have it, if you have it,’ I said. ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘No,’ said Fange. And he shook his turban. ‘Only the posh stuff – care for a half of Frangelico?’

  ‘I am easy,’ I said.

  ‘And so would I be, wearing a beret like that.’

  Oh, how we laughed. I had quite forgotten the beret.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ I asked Fangio once I had acquired my half of Frangelico and a G and T for Kelly.

  ‘The brewery sent me out,’ said Fange. ‘I have left The Pudding and Puller in the capable hands of my twin brother Nuvelari for the afternoon.’