Mariah Mundi and the Ghost Diamonds

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘It was chloroform,’ Mariah said. ‘I knew what it was but couldn’t think of the name. We used it at school to experiment on rats. It would kill them, they would go to sleep and die. It’s a smell I can never forget – reminds me of death.’ He shook his head as if to rid himself of the memory. ‘Mister Soubeiran would take it all the time. Sniff it on a rag and then grin at us before falling asleep at his desk. It sent him mad in the end. I would see him from the window of my classroom, hopping around the school grounds as if he were a giant rabbit. That man was going to put you to sleep and then –’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ Sacha burst in angrily. ‘Captain Charity said he had a job for us and you’d tell me about it. What is it?’

  Mariah didn’t speak at first. He knew she wouldn’t be listening. Taking her by the arm, he walked with Sacha along the grand hallway with its gold pillars and twisting staircase towards the midnight ball. The music grew louder and the passageway more crowded. All the while he looked for the man in the mask.

  ‘You can go to your room if you want,’ he said, wanting her to take the words in kindness.

  ‘And wait for him to come and get me? No chance. What did Charity want us to do?’ she asked again, this time hoping for a reply.

  ‘To spy on an Austrian Baron and tell Captain Jack who he speaks to. That’s all we have to do,’ Mariah said quickly as he fumbled with the badge in his pocket and remembered the words of Isambard Black, Master of the Bureau of Antiquities.

  ‘Remember, Mariah,’ Isambard Black had said on the night he had left the town by train for London soon after Gormenberg had drowned. ‘You do not choose the Bureau, the Bureau chooses you.’

  Mariah could not and would not forget. Aldo Rafden, he was told, had formed the Bureau of Antiquities, a hundred and fifty-three years before. He was an explorer, collector and government spy. To those who knew him, he was a scandalous thief who loved nothing more than finding something precious and taking it for himself. He had plundered the tombs of the East and put the loot on display in Bloomsbury. Rafden had a particular interest in the mummified remains of animals and had filled his displays with dead cats so that the whole museum looked like a charnel house.

  The sole purpose of the Bureau, as it was known, was to find those mysterious objects of power and legend that were only spoken about in whisper. Often, what the Bureau found was so secret that people would never dare mention it in public or claim to know of its whereabouts, and through the years the Bureau had searched out many things. Isambard Black had told Mariah, over a plate of fish and chips in the Golden Kipper, that even the Holy Grail was now in the possession of the Bureau and that this object of legend was in itself quite unremarkable.

  ‘It was made of pot and looked like a herring jar,’ Black had said as he picked a large fishbone from his teeth. ‘And as for the

  philosopher’s stone, we discovered that in the possession of a woman who lived in Edinburgh and spent all her time writing ditties in restaurants.’

  Now, as Mariah led the way to the balcony, Black’s words excited his imagination. He smiled at Sacha and squeezed her hand as he would always do at times like this.

  ‘All we have to do is keep an eye on him, that’s all,’ he said as he opened the door and stepped inside a velvet-clad opera box that overlooked a large dance floor.

  ‘How will we find him?’ Sacha asked.

  Mariah didn’t need to answer. There, twenty feet below was Baron Hoetzendorf in the arms of a rotund lady in sparkling shoes. It was obvious from her vice-like grip upon the slender Baron that this was his wife. She was at least two feet taller than him and three times as large. The woman was squeezed into a gigantic corset that gripped her as if she was about to explode. Despite her great size, she was extremely nimble and danced like a demented squirrel. Baron Hoetzendorf didn’t really dance: any chance of his feet touching the ground was frustrated by the invincible grip of his gargantuan wife in her tight corset.

  Watched by Sacha and Mariah, the Baron was lifted from the floor and swirled back and forth by his wife as if she were a child playing violently with a disliked rag doll. From the pained look upon his face, Mariah presumed that Hoetzendorf was about to faint – either that or be violently sick. As the music shrilled to a crescendo, Madame Hoetzendorf danced faster and faster, keeping immaculate timing. Then, as the music stopped, she let go of her husband, who fell to the floor unsure as to where he was.

  ‘Better not be seen,’ Mariah said, wanting to laugh as he settled back in the shadows to keep watch.

  [ 3 ]

  De Incendiis Corporis Humani Spontaneis

  THE hour passed slowly. The midnight ball was incredibly crowded and incredibly dull. Keeping the Baron under surveillance was quite simple, as it appeared that Madame Hoetzendorf insisted that her husband dance to every tune. At times they were the only couple upon the dance floor. She dragged her beleaguered mate from corner to corner and back again, not caring how many guests were trodden under her incredibly large feet. Straining through one eye, Mariah formed the opinion that she looked like a mad rogue elephant stampeding across the veldt. As the night progressed, fewer and fewer guests dared to go near to the Baron and his wife for fear of being crushed to death.

  From the safety of the balcony, Mariah looked on. Occasionally he would allow his eyes to close as the music droned and moaned and the lateness of the night brought on a desire to sleep. Sacha had wrapped herself in the thick red velvet curtain and yawned continuously as she propped her head against the gilt banister. She tried to smile at Mariah, but he didn’t notice.

  Just as Mariah was about to fall asleep, he saw the Baron slipping away from his wife. She wasted no time in picking a

  small, reluctant man from a nearby table and dancing him to the centre of the ballroom.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Mariah said with a start that woke Sacha. ‘The Baron has left the ball.’

  Mariah didn’t wait for Sacha to reply. He ran from the balcony box and down the staircase. Sacha followed as best she could, unable to keep pace with him. He ran faster and faster as he jumped the treads two at a time.

  He was soon inside the kitchen. Taking a shortcut through the crowds of waiters who were huddled in a small anteroom, Mariah sneaked towards the two large doors that led from the back scullery into the ballroom.

  This was a route known only to the staff; guests could never find their way through the labyrinth of tunnels, passageways and corridors that ran amongst the thick walls and under the floors of the Prince Regent. From the kitchen it was just a short way to the ballroom. The corridor was dark and had thick, beaded curtains at each end. Each of the hundred strands rattled against the others like the tail of a snake; they clattered against the walls and gently moved in the cold draught. Mariah shuddered as he walked through the first curtain. The light grew dim and the air chilled. He counted the steps as he always did; it kept his mind from thinking what could be hiding in the shadows. Sacha was nowhere to be seen. He knew that if he was to find the Baron then he couldn’t wait for her to catch up.

  Mariah took the last pace towards the ballroom door, his footsteps echoing about him. In his mind a voice told him that he was not alone. He brushed aside a strand of the beaded curtain and stopped to listen. All he could hear was the rattle of the beads against the tiled floor, the sound of babbling waiters from the kitchen, and the distant whirring of the steam generator that gave life to the hotel. Taking the brass handle, he pulled open the door and peered inside the ballroom. Amongst the

  crowds of people he could see Madame Hoetzendorf waiting for the one-o’-clock gong that would announce the night buffet. She was several feet from the door, at the head of a long queue that slithered around the golden columns and out of the ballroom doors.

  Everyone awaited the coming of the supper with great anticipation. It was the highlight of a night at the Prince Regent. With great ceremony, a tall man in a frock coat and black tie made his way across the ballroom and onto the sta
ge. He pulled back the curtain to reveal a large Chinese gong. He preened himself and, taking the felt hammer, struck the gong firmly.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in a high-pitched and squeaky voice. ‘The night supper!’

  The huddled waiters left the anteroom and stormed into the ballroom ferrying large trays of cold meat and oysters, which they laid on rows of tables bedecked with swans and antelopes carved from ice. Inside each carving were the frozen bodies of small green frogs that glistened like the lights of a Christmas tree.

  There was a burst of applause as everyone gathered looked on in delight. Mariah stepped inside the room to search out Hoetzendorf. The waiters in their fine purple jackets lined with gold braid formed a peculiar procession, circulating amongst the guests with trays of arachnid-like canapés.

  In the heat from the myriad gas lamps the frozen statues were already beginning to melt. Miraculously, one by one, as each frog was exposed to the air it came back to life and jumped from the table and across the floor.

  Mariah could see Baron Hoetzendorf standing on the far side of the room. He was alone. Mariah edged his way around the ballroom. The Baron twisted his fine moustache and tapped his fingers against the brim of his hat.

  A waiter in an unusual white jacket walked directly to the

  Baron carrying a small silver tray with a selection of neatly cut sandwiches. He offered the tray to the Baron, who clumsily attempted to tuck his hat under his arm and take a sandwich at the same time. The hat fell to the floor, and the waiter handed Baron Hoetzendorf the silver plate and bent down to pick up his hat. The Baron greedily ate three wedges of cheese and bread. He twitched his moustache as he swallowed, as if they tasted quite bitter. He then ate another and then another, until the plate was empty.

  The waiter handed the Baron his hat and bowed before walking out of the main door and disappearing from view. Mariah looked on. A tall man in a pink waistcoat spoke to Hoetzendorf politely as Mariah struggled to hear what was being said. It sounded foreign, and not a language that he could understand. The man handed the Baron a small scrap of paper. He looked at it momentarily, smiled, folded it neatly and put it in his coat pocket.

  Hoetzendorf then turned and briskly walked towards his wife, who had taken up residence amongst the trays of chocolate gateaux. She was helping herself to a seventh portion of a particularly large slab of cake when something made her turn and look at her husband.

  There, in the middle of the dance floor, Baron Hoetzendorf had begun to shake uncontrollably and froth at the mouth. He gripped the tight collar of his uniform and pulled at the buttons as he gasped for air. Mariah quickly realised that the Baron was extremely unwell. As a crowd gathered around him, Hoetzendorf shook and shivered and then his face changed colour. First it took on the shade of a winter sun and then quite violently turned bright purple. The Baron gasped and gasped for a breath that could not be found, and then pointed a finger as if towards someone standing before him.

  The grand Madame began to scream and nimbly rushed

  towards her husband. Reaching out, she took hold of the Baron by the hand. He let out a faint moan and, to the awe of the spectators around him, began to smoke from the ears. His mouth opened as if to speak, but instead of words, blue flames danced from his tongue. Instantly he caught fire. Within a second he was completely engulfed in a cold blue flame. The Baron momentarily glowed bright red and was then surrounded by thick swirls of white smoke.

  Madame Hoetzendorf screamed even louder as her husband disintegrated before her eyes. The fire burnt intensely but without any heat. As the Baron was consumed, particles of bright silver dust were blown upwards, as if he were an erupting volcano. His wife pulled fearfully away, dislodging his shaking hand from his vanishing body.

  ‘Herman! Herman!’ she shouted as she shook the smouldering dead hand back and forth. Her husband then suddenly exploded, showering the screaming guests with a fine silver powder.

  It was too much. Madame Hoetzendorf fainted. She hit the floor with a loud bang that shook the polished parquet. She quivered, rolling on the floor like a Chicago moll, and then whimpered faintly.

  Apart from the hand and his Napoleonic hat, all that was left of the Baron was a pile of grey ash. Everything else had completely combusted. A soft rain of dust gently fell on the cowering guests, who by now had formed a large circle around what was left of Hoetzendorf.

  Mariah pushed his way through the crowd and stared at the remains.

  ‘Get Captain Charity!’ he screamed to a waiter who stood mesmerised by what he had just seen.

  The waiter didn’t move, but remained petrified and trembling as he held the tray of drinks rigidly in his hand.

  ‘Get Charity!’ Mariah shouted again.

  ‘Spontaneous combustion,’ said the tall man in the pink waistcoat who had been talking with Hoetzendorf. ‘I have heard of it many times but have never seen it.’

  The man bent down and from the pocket of his waistcoat took out a silver magnifying glass. He began to examine the remains just as Captain Charity pushed his way through the guests.

  ‘Captain Charity,’ said the man in a Mordovian accent. ‘Strange that this should happen tonight. Hoetzendorf had asked to speak with me, but I never got the chance.’

  ‘Mister Pugachev, I wouldn’t touch that,’ Charity replied. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this has been a terrible accident. I suggest you all go to your rooms.’

  No one moved; it was as if everyone was frozen. The circle of guests closed in even tighter around the ghoulish spectacle.

  ‘It is quite safe – this cannot happen again,’ Charity said. ‘But you must go back to your rooms. The police have been called and will soon be here.’

  Captain Charity didn’t finish what he was about to say. As he spoke, Pugachev began to cough and splutter. His eyes welled with tears as he choked on the air. Pugachev tore at his clothing and fell to his knees. He reached out to Charity with an open hand as he tried to speak.

  ‘It’s the same as before,’ Mariah said as a thin plume of smoke emanated from Pugachev’s nostrils. ‘Stand back, he’ll explode!’

  Panic broke out in the room. People screamed and ran. The emissary of the Emperor of Japan began to shake violently and scream in fear as hundreds of people rushed towards the door in a vast stampede. Mister Pugachev crawled towards Mariah, reaching out for help.

  ‘Beware … Under the iron sea … That’s where you’ll find the answer,’ he said over and over.

  His words were edged in the same blue flame that had consumed Hoetzendorf. In seconds he was engulfed in a silver cloud and had erupted like a volcano. Then, just as Pugachev exploded into a fine dust, the Japanese emissary screamed even louder. Mariah and Charity both turned at the same time. The man gripped his stomach as if something inside him was trying to escape. There was a sudden flash of blinding light as he too disintegrated into dust.

  ‘Get out, Mariah,’ Charity hollered as the gas lamps began to fade.

  Mariah ran for the door. He could see the crowds gathered on the other side. The lobby was filled with people hiding behind furniture in fear that someone else would explode. Charity pushed him from the room and slammed the large doors firmly shut behind them.

  ‘Best stay this side, Mariah – don’t know what is causing them to explode.’

  ‘Spontaneous combustion – that’s what the man said.’

  ‘That is something I do not believe in. Once, perhaps – but three times, never.’

  As soon as Charity spoke there was a scream from the doorway of the hotel. The American Ambassador was wedged into a compartment of the revolving door that led out to the street. Mariah ran towards him with Charity close on his heels.

  ‘Stand back! Everyone out of the way!’ Mariah said as he leapt over two old men in badly fitting wigs who were hiding behind a leather sofa.

  ‘Mariah – no!’ shouted Charity as he tried to grab him and pull him back.

  He was too late. Mariah landed a yard ahead and
ran towards the revolving door. There, trapped like a squashed fish, was the American Ambassador. He was wedged firmly against the glass panel unable to move. Too fat to get through, the Ambassador

  moaned and groaned as three men outside the hotel attempted to push him back inside.

  ‘Leave him!’ Mariah shouted as he noticed the Ambassador’s wife stuck in the same compartment and hidden in the folds of his extra-large coat. ‘He’s stuck.’

  Stuck he was, and from the colour of his face he was about to explode. Before he could be set free, the Ambassador smoked, smouldered, erupted and then exploded. The glass from the door was blown into the street as the lobby of the hotel was filled with wisps of grey smoke, silver dust and fragments of the Ambassador’s ten-gallon hat.

  The eruption of yet another guest sent the hotel into a greater panic than before. Guests jumped from the downstairs windows and ran into the streets. Others hid and refused to come from their rooms. Waiters threw down their trays and barricaded themselves in the kitchen. The lobby emptied quickly, leaving Mariah and Charity to examine the scene.

  They could find no trace of the American Ambassador or his sparrow-like wife. All that remained was a tiny shoe with a gold buckle.

  ‘Will there be any more?’ Mariah asked as he picked the shoe from the carpet and looked inside.

  ‘It was murder,’ Charity replied cautiously. ‘Tell no one of what Pugachev said to you.’

  ‘Under the iron sea? He was talking rubbish,’ Mariah replied.

  ‘I wish he were,’ Charity said as he brushed the dusty remains of the Ambassador from his jacket. ‘It was Irenzee that he tried to say. It’s the ship that arrives tomorrow. It could be the key to what happened here tonight.’

  ‘I saw him talking to the Baron. He gave him a piece of paper. He told you he’d never spoken to him.’