The Book of Ultimate Truths (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy 1)

by Robert Rankin

The other envelope, however, was a different kettle of fish. This one was big and smart and official looking. It had the words PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL printed in the top left-hand corner. The tall boy’s name and address were typed on. Dead centre. Cornelius did not recognize the typeface. It had a slightly Gothic look to it. He picked up the envelope and gave it a bit of a shake. Something hard inside went to and fro.

  ‘I did that,’ said the daddy. ‘Intriguing, isn’t it?’

  Cornelius replaced the envelope and sipped at his tea. It was stone cold.

  ‘This tea is cold,’ he informed the daddy.

  ‘I thought as much. The last cup was just the same. Aren’t you going to open your envelope?’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Let me do it then.’

  ‘Certainly not. It says private and confidential.’

  ‘Only the envelope.’ The daddy finished his cold tea. ‘I much prefer this hot, you know.’ He waggled his cup at Cornelius. ‘Go on, open it up.’

  ‘Oh all right then.’ Cornelius picked up the envelope and tore it open. Out fell a sheet of typed paper and a hard little something. Cornelius picked up the something. He had never seen a credit card, and indeed he was not looking at one now. What he was looking at was something approximately the same size. Cornelius turned it upon his palm. It was fashioned from dark green plastic, wafer thin, yet of considerable weight. A number of holes had been punched through it. Cornelius observed that these corresponded in size to the diameter of a number thirteen knitting needle. He turned his attention to the typed paper. It was a letter. It read:

  Dear Cornelius Murphy

  Arthur Kobold Publications are pleased to announce a vacancy for an ambitious and enterprising young person.

  A.K.P. are currently engaged in an epic work and require the services of an independently minded school-leaver prepared to work without supervision at hours of his own choosing.

  High remuneration, excellent prospects and an immediate cash bonus await the successful applicant who will present himself at twelve noon today.

  Good luck,

  Arthur Kobold

  Cornelius read through the letter again and then whistled. And then he glanced down at his watch. And then he made a troubled face.

  ‘Why do you make a troubled face, oh son of mine?’ the daddy asked.

  Cornelius handed him the letter. The daddy read through it once. Read through it twice. Glanced up at the kitchen clock. And then he too made a troubled face.

  Cornelius observed that several strands of J-Cloth wig spelled out the words ‘There is no God but Allah’ in Arabic across the daddy’s left temple.

  ‘It is nearly ten of the morning clock,’ said the elder Murphy.

  ‘And the letter has no address upon it,’ his son added.

  ‘Show me the little something.’

  Cornelius passed the something to his father, who examined it with great interest. ‘What is it?’ he asked at length. ‘It has more weight than seems natural.’

  Cornelius retrieved both letter and card and set them down before him. ‘It is clearly a test of initiative. Locate the offices of Arthur Kobold Publications by twelve noon and win the big cash pay out.’

  ‘Bravo, son. Please continue.’

  ‘Well.’ Cornelius scratched at his head. The daddy watched the big hair bob perilously. ‘The card has a number of holes in it. My guess would be that if you were to place it over the letter and shuffle it about a bit, some sort of pattern might well emerge. Considering the limited time allowed, I doubt that a code, if such there should prove to be, would take too much cracking. Especially for someone ambitious, enterprising, young and independently minded.’

  ‘Someone such as yourself, for example.’

  ‘Precisely. Of course the secret might lie in the card alone.’

  ‘Bravo once more. And so how will you deal with it?’

  Cornelius smiled. ‘In this fashion. I shall put the letter, the envelope and the little punctured card straight into the dustbin, wash, dress and repair to The Wife’s Legs for a hot cup of tea.’

  ‘Bravo once more,’ chuckled the daddy. ‘Exactly what I would have done. Put it in next door’s bin though, don’t want to upset your mother.’

  ‘Of course.’ Cornelius rose to take his leave.

  ‘Just one thing before you go.’ The daddy displayed another sheet of paper and handed it to him. ‘A list of modelling supplies,’ he explained. ‘Balsa, glue, brass shimmings, things of that nature.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Cornelius raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh yes. I thought you might care to treat me.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Out of your ‘holiday money’.’ The daddy winked.

  Cornelius smiled more broadly than ever. ‘My pleasure,’ he said

  Cornelius bathed, togged up in a faded Hawaiian shirt and his favourite (only) summer suit. Slid his unsocked feet into a pair of canvas loafers and set out to test a certain hypothesis.

  He breakfasted at The Wife’s Legs. Cashed his cheque at the High Street bank. Left the daddy’s list with Mr Moore (of Moore’s Models) and then went off for a bit of a stroll around.

  He passed the time of day with Two Coats the tramp. Waved to some strangers on a coach. Stroked a tom-cat under the chin and watched a steam train go under a bridge.

  His strolling took no fixed route. On the contrary, he wandered where the spirit led him. As the town hall clock struck twelve he found himself in an untidy cul-de-sac beneath the railway arches. And as the final chime rang out, before a dark green door.

  Cornelius stepped sharply up and rapped upon it with his knuckle.

  The door flew open and a small whiskered face peeped up at him.

  ‘Mr Kobold?’ Cornelius asked. ‘Mr Arthur Kobold?’

  ‘Cornelius Murphy,’ said Arthur Kobold. ‘I have been expecting you.’

  5

  ‘Please be seated.’

  Cornelius found himself in the uncluttered office of Mister Arthur Kobold. It was furnished in a style which was new to the tall boy.

  The furniture was of antique design and superior craftsmanship, yet appeared fresh from the showroom. Reproduction then? Cornelius thought not. There was more the feeling of a museum about the place. As if the office, its panelled walls and rich dark furnishings had been preserved from the rigours of time.

  As had Mr Kobold.

  He was dressed in a Victorian morning suit, high starched collar, watered-silk cravat. A diamond tie pin glittered at his throat. He was short and rotund, his face was broad and flat, his hair a high dark ruff. His side whiskers were magnificent.

  Cornelius seated himself in an exquisite chair before a mahogany partners’ desk. Mr Kobold seated himself behind it. He plucked at the fob chain on his waistcoat and produced a ring of tiny brass keys. With one of these he unlocked an ornately decorated tantalus.

  ‘I think this calls for a small port,’ he said merrily as he decanted rich red liquid into a pair of minuscule glasses.

  ‘Here you are.’ Mr Kobold passed a glass to Cornelius who raised it in salute.

  ‘To success,’ said Arthur Kobold.

  ‘To success.’ Cornelius raised his glass but did not drink from it. ‘About the cash bonus?’ he asked.

  ‘All in good time.’ Arthur Kobold delved into a desk drawer and produced an enormous fruit cake. ‘Would you care for a slice of this?’

  ‘It looks a magnificent cake, but I’ve just eaten.’

  ‘As you will.’ Arthur Kobold cut himself a generous wedge and thrust the better part of it into his mouth. ‘Have any trouble getting here?’ he enquired between munchings.

  ‘Apparently not.’ Cornelius had noted that famous men and women generally claimed to have fallen into their famous careers through sheer chance. They just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Whether this was simply false modesty on their part, or something of a more cosmic nature, Cornelius had always been eager to discover.

  And so h
ere he was.

  ‘Well, here I am,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Indeed you are. And you’re the man for me. Would you like to know all about the job?’

  ‘I would prefer first to accept the cash bonus.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Hugo Rune?’ Mr Kobold brushed cakey fragments from his side whiskers.

  Cornelius held his hair and nodded. ‘A local man by all accounts. Wasn’t he burned in effigy by the women of Chiswick?’

  ‘That’s the fellow.’

  ‘My father has one of his books.’

  ‘Which one?’ Mr Kobold dug into the cake once more.

  ‘The Book of Ultimate Truths. I have not read it as yet.’

  ‘Then you should. Carry it with you at all times from now on.’

  ‘Well. I’m reading my way through all the daddy’s books. But that one is still many shelves away. Lodged, if I rightly recall, between volumes eighty-nine and ninety of Local County Bylaws Through The Ages. The daddy has a great interest in that kind of thing.’

  ‘Well, be that as it may. My company is seeking to republish Rune’s work. But in its entirety. Rune was a man of erudite learning. A genius and visionary. The Book of Ultimate Truths was his masterwork. But when it was published, years after his death, it was incomplete. Whole sections had been removed.’

  ‘And you are seeking to recover this lost material?’

  ‘Exactly. More port?’

  ‘I haven’t finished this one yet.’

  ‘No you haven’t. Drink up.’

  Cornelius moved the glass towards his lips. ‘And where do you suppose this lost material to be? Have you contacted the original publishers?’

  ‘Good boy.’ Mr Kobold sucked his fingers. ‘Long ago gone into liquidation. No trace. But possibly here.’ He dug a wad of papers from another drawer and passed them across the desk to Cornelius.

  ‘There is an auction sale tomorrow. Amongst the lots are the personal effects of the late Victor Zenobia.’

  ‘Zenobia?’ Cornelius asked. ‘Wasn’t she the third-century queen of Palmyra, who was captured by the Roman emperor Aurelian?’

  ‘That’s the one. But this Victor Zenobia was one of Rune’s former acolytes. He was Rune’s secretary. And so, amongst his personal effects are a number of papers. They may be those that I seek, they may be not. They may, however, furnish some clues. I have also a list of names. People I should like traced. Someone has the missing papers. Of this I am certain.’

  Cornelius was currently working his way through the seedy section of the daddy’s library. He was at present enjoying Bodies On The Backlot. A Lazlo Woodbine thriller.

  ‘What you need is a private detective,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘In as many words, or fewer, yes.’ Arthur Kobold smiled.

  ‘You’ve cake in your teeth,’ said Cornelius. ‘Might I see your list?’

  Kobold dug it out and passed it over. So much paper passing to and fro in a single day, thought the tall boy. He examined the list. There were five names. Victor Zenobia’s was right at the top. It had a tick against it.

  ‘And the whereabouts of the other four are unknown?’

  ‘Unknown. I spotted Victor’s name in an obituary column. I phoned the paper and learned about the auction. Sheer chance.’

  Sheer chance, thought Cornelius. ‘And where is the auction to be held?’

  ‘Edinburgh. Tomorrow at 1 p.m.’

  ‘Edinburgh?’ Cornelius liked the sound of that.

  ‘All your expenses will be paid. First-class travel and accommodation.’

  Cornelius liked the sound of that also.

  ‘More port?’ asked Arthur Kobold.

  ‘No thank you.’ Cornelius laid down the unsipped glass. ‘I should be happy to accept the position. I will need an advance, however. I am currently without funds.’

  ‘The cash bonus is five hundred pounds.’ Arthur Kobold rammed the last of the fruit cake into his mouth. ‘You really should try this.’

  ‘I think you’ve finished it.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed. Well. Go to Edinburgh. Purchase the effects of the late Victor Zenobia. Report your findings to me. Follow up whatever clues you can glean. Open a bank account for yourself. Phone in your expenses. They will be covered without question.’

  ‘Without question?’

  ‘Naturally. I am employing you because I believe you will do a first-class job. If I provide you with second-class expenses you would be justified in cheating me. If I offer you first-class treatment, what possible reason would you have to play me false?’

  ‘None whatever, but for basic dishonesty.’

  ‘And do you consider yourself basically dishonest?’

  ‘No. In all honesty, I do not.’

  ‘Neither do I. Then we have a deal. Just one more thing you should know. Time is of the essence. I am not the only one searching for these papers, there is a rival publisher. The stakes, as they say, are high. If you are successful there will be much work for you in the future.’

  ‘Have no fear. If the papers exist, I will find them.’

  ‘I am quite certain that you will. Now, here is five hundred pounds to get you started. Shall we say a weekly wage of five hundred also?’

  ‘That seems good enough to me.’ Cornelius Murphy grinned from ear to ear.

  6

  Cornelius returned home via Moore’s Models.

  The daddy had, no doubt through some oversight, neglected to mention the matter of his long overdue account with Mr Moore and the tall boy was forced to pay this before the shopkeeper would part with the goods.

  ‘Charge all future bills directly to me,’ Cornelius said with a smile. The Moore came over all giddy at this and had to have a sit down.

  Once back at Moby Dick Terrace, Cornelius explained matters to the parents. Borrowed The Book of Ultimate Truths. Had his bags packed for him, and took his leave.

  He bade his farewells to Tuppe at The Wife’s Legs. His pleas to Mr Kobold for an assistant, even one paid for at his own expense, had fallen upon deaf ears. Mr Kobold was adamant. Cornelius must go it alone.

  ‘And so it is farewell, I’m afraid,’ he told the short person.

  ‘Send me a postcard then.’ Tuppe raised his teacup in both hands. ‘And if you could see your way clear to buy me one of those little Scottish drummer-girl dolls in the transparent plastic cartons.’ Cornelius put a thumb up. ‘Then you’d probably see your way clear to getting me a bottle of Scotch instead.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a case.’

  ‘My thanks. I see that you’re all packed up.’ Tuppe indicated the suitcase and rucksack beneath the table.

  ‘I have to start right away. Catch the train tonight.’

  ‘So what’s in the rucksack?’

  ‘Winter woollies, a thermos of coffee and a pack of the daddy’s ex-T.A. field rations. The parents would not let me leave home without them.’

  ‘Very wise. And you’d best go to the toilet before you leave. You don’t want to get caught short.’ Tuppe grinned foolishly.

  ‘Too true.’ When Cornelius returned from the gents, Tuppe was nowhere to be seen.

  At precisely the stroke of six the mighty Leviathan Class locomotive, gushing steam and panting dramatically, left King’s Cross Station behind and set off for Scotland.

  In the first-class dining-car Cornelius Murphy spooned Brown Windsor into his mouth and leafed through The Book of Ultimate Truths. He folded back a page at random and read the chapter heading.

  WONDERS OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

  And what lay beneath it.

  Throughout history many ‘learned’ men have studied the animal kingdom and spoiled countless reams of perfectly good paper with their observations.

  Pliny the Elder was a great man for this kind of thing. In his Natural History, first published in AD77, he devotes a chapter to the humble goldfish.

  Here are his ‘Seven Wonderful Verities’ on the subject.

  The goldfish is the only creature which does not di
splace its own weight in water,

  In order to survive, the goldfish must consume at least four times its body weight every hour.

  Under a new moon a goldfish always points due north. (Marco Polo is known to have carried a number of goldfish with him in case his lodestone ever broke down. H.R.)

  In Upper Sumatra goldfish are used as currency.

  In Egypt goldfish skins are used as condoms.

  Powdered goldfish is a popular aphrodisiac.

  The goldfish is the rarely used thirteenth sign of the zodiac.

  Well, we’ve certainly come a long way since Pliny’s day. Goldfish skins are now in common use as condoms the whole world over.

  But do we really know any more about the animal kingdom now than Pliny thought he knew then? I wonder.

  Take, for example, the phenomenon of ‘fish falls’. Rains of tiny fish cascading down on the planet. Observed by many, disbelieved by most, understood by none. And what about hedgehog falls? So much solid evidence and no research carried out whatever.

  Take a drive in the country during the hedgehog season and you will see the remains of thousands of them splattered across the roads. And observe just how flat they are. They must have fallen from a very great height to end up like that!

  The popular ‘explanation’ for these pitiful remains is that the hedgehogs have been run over by motor cars. Oh dear, oh dear. It is quite clear to me that the hedgehog, or hedge-hopping hog, as it was originally known, is a dweller of the upper atmosphere. It feeds upon flying insects and the tiny fish that inhabit the Aquasphere.

  The Aquasphere, as all who have read my monograph Noah’s Flood: Where all that water actually came from will know, is the mile-thick outer layer of water which prevents our atmosphere from drifting away into space. Hedgehogs, which fish in this region, float about up there, remaining aloft due to the inflated sacs of natural methane which surround their bodies. When they die, often due to punctures received during the rutting season, they deflate and plunge down to earth, exploding as they strike the Tarmac. The fact that you never see a flat hedgehog upon a soft grassy field, bears this out and proves my point somewhat conclusively, I so believe.