A number of the exhibits had been stuffed to preserve them but they were not the finest examples of the taxidermist's art. There was an elephant's head, minus its ivory; a still-born two-headed lamb; a stuffed pangolin; a two-tailed lizard; various cases of pin-stuck butterflies, moths, spiders and scorpions; and then there was a large pickling jar containing the knotted form of an octopus, which reminded him far too vividly of his jaunt to the Pacific only a few months before.
He was disappointed not to see much in the way of dinosaurian artefacts. Thought of the terrible lizards then took him back to London Zoo and the breakout from the Challenger Enclosure nearly six months previously, and his rather too close an encounter with a fully-grown megasaur. What had happened to the brute after he brought it down in Parliament Square, he wondered.
And there were plants too; dried vanilla pods; the rump-shaped seed of the Coco-de-Mer palm; and, supposedly, a mandrake root, but which to Ulysses looked more like a prize-winning obscenely shaped vegetable at a village flower show. He had seen the genuine article, and it looked nothing like a cheekily-shaped parsnip.
But none of the plants on show here were as amazing, or as deadly, as the others he had encountered within the Amaranth House at Kew.
Suspended from the ceiling by means of a complicated system of pulleys and wires was a hollowed-out bark canoe that had once belonged to a lost Amazonian tribe; a gaudily-painted totem pole of the Gitxsan Indians of Canada, painted in what would have once been bright, overpowering primary colours; a slice taken out of a Californian giant redwood; and the hull of a Chinese junk.
"It's as if the spirit of Pitt Rivers is alive and well, and residing here in London," Ulysses announced with something like delight in his voice. "Oh, I've got one of those," he said, pointing at a Balinese fetish mask, "or at least I should say I had one of those, before the fire and all."
It amazed Ulysses how many items there were. It seemed that it was not enough merely to own the tusk of a narwhal; Cruickshank needed to possess at least three of the things, each carefully labelled and catalogued with its provenance, including where and when it was acquired, or killed, in the case of the whale tusks.
It a less enlightened age, when the world was a much larger and more mysterious place, such tusks were passed off as the horns of unicorns, and for a suitably unreal price too. Recalling to mind the photograph of the Whitby Mermaid from the paper, Ulysses was almost disappointed not to find one of the horns screwed into the skull of a stuffed antelope or llama with the proud boast that this was the last unicorn to die on British soil. However, his faith in human nature, specifically man's ability and desire to dupe his fellow man, and man's readiness, in turn, to be duped, was restored when he spotted what was purported to be the shed skin of a basilisk - in truth, a cobra's skin with cockerel's wattles sewn on.
The Germans had a wonderful word for collections such as these; they called them Wunderkammer - literally "Cabinet of Wonders." But Cabinet of Curiosities seemed to suit this place better. Most of the objects on display weren't wonders; they were tired, faded, deteriorating scrag-ends of dubious provenance, or downright fakes. There wasn't anything wonderful about them although they did make Ulysses wonder as to the obsessive hoarding nature of the man who had gathered this disparate collection together. Yes, curiosities, not wonders.
"Excuse me, constable," Ulysses said, putting a fraternal hand on the shoulder of a young policeman whose misfortune it had been to be put on this case. "But who's the officer in charge?"
There weren't any robots Peelers on the case. Apparently it wasn't deemed important enough to warrant that sort of interest or protection. No, it was going to be up to the Bobby in the street to solve this one.
Ulysses supposed that it was an unimportant matter, when one considered what went on in a city the size of Londinium Maximum on a daily basis. It was only the curious nature of the object that had been stolen, and the public's insatiable appetite for the bizarre and macabre that had meant it had even made it into the papers.
Catching the confident look in Ulysses' eye, the policeman - who looked like he hadn't even started shaving yet, now Ulysses came to consider it - swallowed nervously before answering. "Inspector Wallace," he said, pointing at an immaculately turned out gentleman standing in the middle of the room, wearing a sharp pin-striped suit with a tailored trench coat over the top.
Not for the first time that morning - the day was still just shy of noon - Ulysses was unable to hide the look of surprise that seized his face, his emotions as readable as an open book.
"Oh, not Inspector Allardyce then? I would have thought this one would be his territory."
"It would normally, sir," the constable agreed, "but Inspector Allardyce is on holiday at present."
"On holiday? Really? I always took him to be the kind of man who ate, drank and slept the job."
"Not this week, sir." The constable gave a wry smile. "Did you want to speak to Inspector Wallace at all?"
"No, no, don't trouble him." Ulysses was looking beyond the constable and the curiosities now to a darkly-attired man in the far corner of the room. "I'm just here to catch up with an old friend."
The early bird that had caught this particular worm was studying an empty glass display case, the front panel of it hanging open.
"Well, well, well. Gabriel Wraith," Ulysses declared, approaching the cabinet in the corner. "Who'd have thought it?"
The man spun round on his heel, otherwise maintaining his carefully poised, and yet ironing board straight, posture and glowered at the beaming Ulysses.
"Quicksilver."
"Fancy meeting you here."
"Fancy indeed."
Ignoring Ulysses, Wraith turned back to his examination of the display case.
Ignoring the rebuff, Ulysses peered over his shoulder none too subtly to get a view of the case for himself. Resting on the black velvet mount at the base of the cabinet, looking rather forlorn now, was a handwritten card bearing the inscription, 'Whitby Mermaid'.
As Wraith picked at pieces of fluff attached to the velvet with a pair of tweezers, Ulysses also saw now that the consulting detective was wearing crisp white cotton gloves, so as not to contaminate any evidence he might find there.
Wraith snorted irritably at Ulysses' continued and obviously unwanted presence. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked icily, still refusing to actually face the interloper.
"So, any ideas?"
"I am considering a number of alternative hypotheses at the moment."
"Hmm, a mystery, isn't it?"
"No, not really. Not to someone with a logical mind."
"So you have an answer then?"
"There is always an answer, a logical answer, arrived at following careful consideration of the evidence. It just takes a disciplined mind to uncover it."
"So, you think you'll find the answer?" Ulysses pressed, with all the enthusiasm of an eager puppy, much to Wraith's obvious annoyance.
"I have no doubt that I shall solve this - as you put it - 'mystery', although there is nothing mysterious about it. And I certainly don't need your help." A cold smile suddenly appeared on Wraith's pinched lips. "I understand you had something to do with the fire at Kew," he said, brightly. "You're a walking liability, Quicksilver. First the Crystal Palace, then the loss of that cruise-liner and now Kew Gardens has felt the fell hand of the Quicksilver curse upon it. Why, wasn't your own home gutted by fire not so long ago?"
"That incident suffered from gross exaggeration by the press," Ulysses suddenly found himself at pains to point out.
"Yes, I remember the papers reported your death. Pity."
Hearing hurried footsteps tap-tapping their way across the parquet floor of the room, Ulysses turned to see a yet again red-faced Mycroft Cruickshank steaming his way over to where they were inspecting the cabinet together.
"Ah, Mr Cruickshank. Would you like to give us your considered opinion as to who broke in here and how they got away? Perhaps you could f
ill in a few gaps for me; clarify a few details," Ulysses began.
Cruickshank glared at him with those piggy black eyes of his from out of the doughy arrangement of his face. From the colour of the curator's face, Ulysses just knew that all this stress couldn't be doing his blood pressure any good.
"I'm sorry, Mr Wraith, is this gentlemen bothering you?"
"Yes he is, Mr Cruickshank."
"Mr Quicksilver, you are here thanks to my gracious goodwill, sir. Please don't abuse that generosity of spirit."
"Of course not. So the break-in was two nights ago now?" Ulysses deftly side-stepped the subject, just as he deftly ushered the curator of this weird and wonderful collection of the macabre and downright bizarre away from where Wraith was working, as if it was he who had interrupted the private detective's investigation of the crime scene.
"What? Yes," Cruickshank replied caught out by Ulysses' abrupt change of conversational direction.
"And you reported it to the police yesterday morning when you discovered that the mermaid was missing, is that right?"
"Er, yes."
Ulysses waited, eyeing Cruickshank expectantly, as if waiting for him to speak. The bewildered proprietor obliging took his cue and began to spill the beans.
"I came in to open up, as it were, as usual and was caught out by the chill draft that was sweeping the room."
"And where was this draft coming from?"
"A window in the one of the - ahem - conveniences had been left open."
"The door hadn't been tampered with?"
"No. It was locked, just as I had left it the night before."
"And who else has a key?"
"Only, Mr Gallowglass, the director of the museum. But the police have already questioned him and his alibi stands up to the closest scrutiny. Besides, he's a trustworthy sort of a fellow."
"And where are these - ahem - conveniences?"
"Over there," Cruickshank pointed to a door in the adjacent corner half hidden behind the sarcophagus of a ninth dynasty Egyptian king.
"And is there any other way of reaching them?"
"No, only from this room."
"Well then, if it wasn't Mr Gallowglass, and I have to say, why would a man of his standing be interested in stealing a forgery -"
"I'll have you know I have it on the best authority that it is - was - the genuine article!" Cruickshank blazed.
"- and unless it was you, planning some insurance scam -"
"What are you trying to say, sir?"
"- which I sincerely doubt, otherwise you'd have taken something of more obvious value that the mermaid. And talking of fakes," Ulysses said, "where did the Whitby Mermaid come from? And don't say 'Whitby'." Cruickshank looked like he was about to protest again but instead made a face like a goldfish gasping for air. "You don't honestly expect anyone to believe that it was the real deal, do you?"
Cruickshank's manner changed in an instant. He drew Ulysses to one side, an arm around his shoulders and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial hush.
"You're a man of the world, Mr Quicksilver, I can see that, so I won't try to fool you in this regard. If you ask me the thing's a fake. You can even see the stitching if you look closely enough - or at least the scars where the stitches would have been, they're not there now - but old Craven was adamant that when he caught the thing in his nets it was alive, gasping for air on the deck of his little boat as he looked on in disbelief. He swears on the Bible it's the truth, but it hardly seems credible, does it?"
Ulysses gave that thought some consideration for a moment. There were certainly many strange and downright weird things in this world, and he had seen a fair few of them, but mermaids? That just seemed one sea dog's tale too far.
"But nonetheless you saw fit to reveal this abomination, anomaly - call it what you will - to the world."
"Of course. I saw it as my duty, to let the viewing public decide for themselves," Cruickshank said, putting a showman's spin on the subject.
"And you cut Mr Craven in for a share of the proceeds raised from the viewing public?"
"Of course, sir."
"Well, I'm sure that whatever it was you offered him, it was a fair cut, once you take off your, no doubt, not inconsiderable running costs."
"That's right," Cruickshank said, warily. A confidence trickster was always going to be a hard man to play when he was already wise to the tricks played by others.
"Putting that aside for the moment," Ulysses went on, "the fact is that the mermaid was stolen and the only way the felon could have entered was through the open window in the conveniences?"
"But that's impossible. No-one could get in through there; it's hardly bigger than a letterbox!"
"Not impossible, Cruickshank, old boy, only highly improbable."
"What?"
"And once you have ruled out the impossible, what's left, no matter how improbable it might appear, holds the key to the truth!" Ulysses declared triumphantly. "And the cabinet wasn't forced either?"
"No." The cabinet of curiosities' curator was wearing an expression of confusion on his face now.
"Then I would say that the scoundrel we're after is a dab hand with lock picks as well," Ulysses mused, a thoughtful hand supporting his chin. "Good day to you, Mr Cruickshank."
"What? You're going?" Cruickshank exclaimed, as Ulysses strode off, making for the exit, wrong-footed once again. Strangely, he sounded, if not disappointed, then at least annoyed that Ulysses was ready to depart as quickly as he arrived.
"We have all the information we need, haven't we, Nimrod?"
"It would seem so, sir," Nimrod replied in that familiar disinterested tone of his.
"And we wouldn't want to trouble you or Mr Wraith any longer. You don't want us getting under your feet more than is necessary, I'm sure?"
"Well... No?"
"Then good day to you, sir, and I hope Mr Wraith comes up trumps for you, I really do."
And with that, Ulysses left Cruickshank's Cabinet of Curiosities.
As he and Nimrod descended the steps in front of the Holbrook Museum, his ever-faithful manservant asked: "You're not really leaving the matter in the hands of Mr Wraith, are you, sir?"
"You know me better than that, Nimrod," Ulysses replied, unable to hide the look of glee on his face. He was always the same when he was at the beginning of a new adventure. The hunt was all.
"The game is afoot, Nimrod. We have a mystery to solve. And I think it's about time you looked up some of your old acquaintances again."
Chapter Four
The Whitechapel Irregulars
"Why is it that your 'contacts' always want to meet in such charming places?" Ulysses asked, as he took in the black looming tombs and ivy-clad gravestones of Highgate Cemetery. The skeletal branches of the trees scratched at the night's sky with their talon-like tips, the twigs rattling like dry bones in the chill November wind.
Regardless of the fact that they were still within the bounds of the capital, right at this moment civilisation seemed a long way away. They might as well have been out in the desolate wilds in the middle of nowhere, with only the bodies of the dead for company.
"I understand that they are of the underworld, but do they really need to get so close to the real thing? Does it provide them with some sense of security or something?"
"It goes with the territory, sir, so to speak," Nimrod explained patiently. "No-one else comes to graveyards after dark."
"Indeed. Hardly surprising, is it?"
"The view from the other side, eh, sir?"
"I suppose you could call it that. Although the other side of what?"
Ulysses strained his eyes to peer uneasily between the crypts and iron-speared fences of guarded graves. His edginess didn't arise from a fear of such places, or from being reminded of one's mortality. Ulysses had witnessed the death of others and faced death himself more times than he would care to remember in his years as a dandy adventurer and agent of the throne of Magna Britannia.
No, his
unease arose from a desire to get a move on with his latest case. If there was something Ulysses Quicksilver didn't like, it was pointlessly hanging around. What he enjoyed - what he craved - was the thrill of the chase, whether it was pursuing a mystery to its conclusion, battling enemies of the state, life or death struggles or, as it had once been, setting about capturing the heart - or at least the libido - of whichever lovely it was that currently caught his eye.
"You did say nine o'clock, didn't you, Nimrod?"
"I did, sir," Nimrod replied in the same indefatigably patient manner.
"Then where is he?"
And then he felt it, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, his skin goose-pimpling as that ever reliable sixth sense of his kicked in.
"Oh, don' chou worry," came a voice whose words were distorted by a broad cockney drawl, "I'm 'ere. 'Ave bin for the last ten minutes. 'Eard every word you said, din' I?"
Ulysses' head snapped round and his eyes locked on the empty space between a towering unkempt yew and a long forgotten family's house-sized tomb. Only it wasn't empty. There was a figure there, a silhouette darker still against the already oppressive blackness of another Smog-shrouded London night.
But now that Ulysses knew where the man was, he could see subtle signs of movement as Nimrod's contact approached.
"'Evenin', Mr Nimrod," he said, nodding to Ulysses' manservant.
"Good evening, Rat." Nimrod spoke to the shadow no differently to how he would address his master or even Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself. But it sounded strange to hear him pronounce a name such as Rat in the clipped syllables of that well-bred accent of his. "May I introduce my employer, Mr Quicksilver."
The man said nothing but merely regarded Ulysses with the kind of scowl that implied that he rated the dandy barely above something he might find on the bottom of his shoe. Ulysses put this down to the natural distrust of the criminal for any figure of authority or with a higher social status than himself.
Pax Britannia: Human Nature Page 4
