by George Mann
Rutherford nodded. So far, everything Angelchrist had said confirmed what was written in the reports of the time.
“Well, the four of us—Newbury, Miss Hobbes, Bainbridge and I—stormed the place with a handful of bobbies for back-up. The smugglers put up quite a fight. It transpired they’d been operating out of the warehouse for some time. The place was heavily fortified, protected by a huge, flightless, carnivorous bird they’d brought back from the Congo, along with an army of mechanically reanimated pygmies. Well,” Angelchrist said, around the mouthpiece of his pipe, “Bainbridge and I dealt with the bird, leading it a merry dance around the docks before felling it with a shot to the head. Newbury, Miss Hobbes and the bobbies were left to handle the pygmies in the meantime. They must have ripped through the place like tornadoes, as a veritable army of the mechanised corpses lay sprawled upon the ground when Bainbridge and I returned a short while later. There was, of course, no sign of the criminals responsible—fled amongst the chaos, we presumed—but we found the Maharajah’s lost treasure locked in a subterranean vault beneath the warehouse.”
Rutherford nodded. He didn’t know whether Angelchrist was embellishing the story or whether the original report had been light on detail, but this was the first he’d heard of the terror bird and the reanimated pygmies. He reached for the teapot and began pouring the tea. “And the Star? The reports state that you retrieved the cabinet but found it empty.”
Angelchrist grinned. “Well, I suppose we were a little... economical with the truth. The Star was there, in the cabinet, just as the stories suggested it would be. We turned the treasure over to the Crown as we’d been instructed, but the Star—well, we all agreed to bring it here for safekeeping. It’s been in my possession ever since.”
Rutherford frowned. How could a man so celebrated, with such an impeccable service record, do something such as this? To steal and hide a national treasure? Not only that, but Sir Maurice Newbury, too, conspiring along with him. Rutherford could hardly credit it. “Where is it?” he asked.
Angelchrist laughed. “You’re holding it now,” he said.
“What?” Rutherford looked down at the teapot in his hands. “Surely not...” he said, trailing off. Yet even as he spoke he saw that the old, clay teapot was etched with a rough five-pointed star, around which two lines of Sanskrit had been crudely engraved. “My God!” he said, setting it down upon the tray. “You’re telling me this is it? This is the Maharajah’s Star? It’s just an old, worthless pot.”
Angelchrist was still laughing. “But that’s exactly the point, my dear Rutherford. The inscription, roughly translated, means: ‘That which the heart treasures most cannot be measured in gold’. It was the Maharajah’s secret. The Star was worthless, but it served as a reminder to him that all of the treasure he had amassed, all of that wealth, meant nothing. Not really. They were nothing but pretty trinkets.”
Rutherford leaned back in his chair, staring at Angelchrist in disbelief.
“It was also one of the finest security measures ever devised,” Angelchrist continued. “The true power of the Star was the very fact the world believed it to be a treasure of unimaginable value. While it remained locked in the Maharajah’s cabinet, guarded by those hundred clockwork warriors, it was the only thing on the mind of thieves and vagabonds throughout all of India. It represented the ultimate prize. The Maharajah knew that while the true nature of the Star remained a secret, all of his other treasures were safe. His enemies had eyes only for the Star.”
Angelchrist reached for his teacup and brought it to his lips before continuing. “Newbury knew this. And he knew that the Queen was only really interested in baubles and trinkets. She, like all those other thieves who had tried to take it over the years, was enamoured with the notion of the Star as a treasure. She wouldn’t recognise its intrinsic value, even if she did know the truth. So Newbury suggested I take the Star into safekeeping, that we put it about that the Star was still lost. That way the criminal elements throughout the world would have something to keep them occupied while we focused on keeping the Empire safe. He was that sort of man, Mr Rutherford. Always concerned with what was best, what was right. It worked, too—there have been many criminals over the years that have sought the Star, dedicating their lives to finding it. The last thing I heard, an albino count from Romania was in London, devoting all of his not-inconsiderable influence into tracing what became of the pirates who stole it.”
Rutherford shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t take his eyes off the teapot. It was a simple, utilitarian object that had been at the centre of a mystery for well over a century. So many people had given their lives in pursuit of the Star. Yet Rutherford couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Newbury had been right. Perhaps it was best to preserve the enigma of the Star. To leave those people searching.
“I suppose you’ll be taking it with you?” Angelchrist said, his voice level.
Rutherford met his gaze. “I... no. I think, perhaps, it would be in everyone’s best interests, Professor, if the Star were to remain here with you. Let’s forget we ever had this conversation. We’ll enjoy this cup of tea, and then I’ll take my leave. I think that would be for the best.”
Angelchrist chuckled. He clamped the mouthpiece of his pipe between his teeth. “Good choice, Mr Rutherford,” he said. “Good choice indeed.”
Rutherford reached for the teapot. He was thirsty, and it was going to be a long drive home.
THE ALBINO'S SHADOW
LONDON, AUGUST 1933
I
“I even heard he’d been resurrected from the dead by a blood infusion from some heathen witch doctor. They say he’s not even a man anymore, but some sort of pale spirit, half ghost, half juju.”
Major Absalom rocked back in his seat and fixed Rutherford with a look of absolute sincerity, peering out from beneath his heavy, furrowed brow and bushy eyebrows. He chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pipe, smoke dribbling from his nostrils like the exhalation of a dormant dragon.
Rutherford smiled. He’d always thought the Major was a little too credulous for his own good. “You sound as if you actually believe all these myths about this ‘Monsieur Zenith’ character,” he said, before taking a long draw on his cigarette. He blew the smoke casually from the corner of his mouth, watching his superior officer with interest.
Absalom’s frown deepened. His whiskers—which curled impressively from his ears to meet his moustache—twitched as he considered Rutherford’s words. “To be truthful with you, Rutherford, I’m not even sure I believe the man himself isn’t a myth. I mean, really...” he sighed, leaning forward again and placing both of his palms on the leather surface of his desk.
Rutherford watched him, amused. “I hear the Yard have attributed scores of cases to him over the years. He’s one of the most wanted men in the Empire.”
Absalom snorted.
“You’re not a believer, then, sir?”
“Be that as it may, there are others,” Absalom coughed, as if not wishing to give voice to the names themselves, “who do believe he’s out there, and moreso, that he’s harbouring sinister intentions towards them.”
Rutherford stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray on Absalom’s desk and folded his hands on his lap. “Does the Prime Minister have any evidence to support his claim?”
Absalom raised an eyebrow in surprise. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Rutherford to be so well informed. “Of course he doesn’t,” he said, resignedly. “Simply that he asserts to have received a telephone call from the villain in question.”
“And?” Rutherford prompted.
Absalom shrugged. “Only that Monseiur Zenith told him to expect a change in his fortunes.”
“It’s not a lot to go on,” said Rutherford.
“Indeed it’s not,” agreed Absalom, “and to be honest, if it were anyone else, I should be counselling equanimity. However, we’re talking about the Prime Minister. We need to show we’re taking it seriously.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” replied Absalom, with bluster. “Goes without saying.” He stroked his whiskers absently.
“So you want me to pay a visit to Downing Street, speak with the Prime Minister?” asked Rutherford.
“God, no,” said Absalom, grimacing. “Wouldn’t want to lumber you with that. I’ll take care of the PM.” He rocked back in his chair. “No, I want you to look into this Monseiur Zenith character, see if you can’t get to the bottom of what’s going on. I want to know who he is and what his game is. If,” he added, with a roll of his eyes, “he even exists at all, that is.”
Rutherford grinned. “I know just where to start,” he said.
II
Rutherford paused for a moment at the end of the garden path, chewing on the stub of his cigarette.
The house was just as he remembered it from his visit six months earlier, when he’d called on the professor to interview him regarding the matter of the Maharajah’s Star; old, immaculate and somewhat incongruous, nestled as it was amongst its modern counterparts. Not unlike its owner, Rutherford mused with a grin.
The interview had proved successful, but not at all in the manner Rutherford had expected. After hearing Professor Angelchrist’s tale, Rutherford had ended up throwing in his lot with the retired agent, helping him to perpetuate a decades-old lie about the whereabouts of an ancient treasure.
It was during the course of the ensuing conversation that Angelchrist had first mentioned the “albino prince”. It had been only a fleeting reference, a cursory remark to demonstrate another point, but for some reason it had lodged in the back of Rutherford’s mind. Now, with hindsight, he realised that Angelchrist could not have been referring to anyone else. It had to be Zenith.
He had no idea whether the professor would know anything more about Rutherford’s alabaster-skinned quarry, but regardless, it was the only lead he had. If Angelchrist proved to be a dead end, Rutherford would be forced to go back to Absalom empty-handed.
Rutherford filled his lungs with sharp, sweet tobacco smoke, dropped the stub of the cigarette on the path and crushed it underfoot. He exhaled slowly through the corner of his mouth as he walked towards the door, which—as he’d expected it might—swung open before he’d even had chance to put his boot on the bottom step.
Angelchrist’s elderly, bald-headed butler peered out through the narrow crack, a suspicious frown on his face.
“Good afternoon. I’m here to see Professor Angelchrist,” said Rutherford, genially.
The man’s expression altered almost immediately as he seemed to recognise Rutherford’s voice. “I fear I did not recognise you for a moment, Mr Rutherford. I do beg your pardon.” The door opened fully and the butler gave a slight smile as he beckoned Rutherford into the house.
Rutherford smiled. “I imagine the professor receives a great many visitors,” he said. “You couldn’t possibly be expected to remember them all.”
“No, sir,” said the butler in a droll voice. “It was the... well, it was the hat.”
Rutherford couldn’t help but laugh at the butler’s derisory tone. He reached up and removed the offending item—a wide-brimmed fedora he had purchased in New York a few years earlier—and handed it to the other man as he stepped over the threshold, ducking his head beneath the low beam.
The butler took the hat without further comment, closing the door behind them and following Rutherford into the house. He placed it carefully on a nearby hat stand and held out his arm for Rutherford’s overcoat.
The hallway was shrouded in darkness, and Rutherford could hear the groaning and ticking of myriad clockwork machines in the shadowy recesses. A large, potted aspidistra stood at the foot of the staircase, and a wooden, life-sized figure of a caveman loomed down eerily from the landing above.
Rutherford had a sense that the house was crowded with the accumulated detritus of decades, paraphernalia of a thousand long-forgotten adventures. He longed to explore, to go rummaging and digging amongst all of this wondrous stuff, to unpick the tales attached to each item.
“If you’d like to come this way, sir,” said the butler, interrupting his reverie, “I’m sure the professor will be delighted to speak with you.”
Rutherford nodded, and followed behind the other man as he led them through the winding bowels of the house, past the propped-up case of an Egyptian mummy, a strange-looking contraption labelled the aetheric calibrator and a display case filled with primitive effigies and dolls. Atop this display case sat a large brass owl, which turned its head to follow them as they passed, clacking its metallic wings and chirruping noisily.
“Ignore the owl, sir,” said the butler. “It has eyes only for the lacquered furniture, damnable thing.”
Rutherford tried not to laugh.
A moment later, the butler stopped abruptly outside a panelled door, and rapped loudly three times. He turned the handle and pushed the door open for Rutherford. “In here, Mr Rutherford,” he said, shooing Rutherford in. “You make yourself comfortable, and I’ll organise some tea.”
“Thank you,” said Rutherford, realising for the first time that he didn’t actually know the butler’s name. He stepped over the threshold into the dimly lit room beyond.
Professor Angelchrist was sitting in a chair by the fire. He might not have moved in the intervening six months since Rutherford’s previous call—he sat in precisely the same position, a book balanced neatly upon his lap. He looked up when Rutherford came into the room, and smiled warmly. “Welcome back, Mr Rutherford. It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” said Rutherford, crossing the room to shake Angelchrist by the hand.
“Please, take a seat, and tell me how I might be of assistance to you,” said Angelchrist, waving Rutherford to the chair opposite. “Is it with regards to the Maharajah’s Star?”
“In a manner of speaking,” replied Rutherford, settling into his seat. “I remember that, during my previous visit, you told me of an albino prince from Eastern Europe who’d been searching for the Star.”
“Ah, yes. Monsieur Zenith,” said Angelchrist, with a tight smile. “What an interesting fellow.”
“So he’s real, then?” asked Rutherford, sensing a story.
Angelchrist laughed. “Oh, yes, Mr Rutherford, as real as you or I.” He folded his book shut and placed it neatly on the side table. “I met him once,” he continued. “He came here but a week after you, searching for the Star.”
Rutherford couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. “He came here?”
Angelchrist laughed again. “Indeed. He was quite charming, in his own way. Resourceful, too. He’d followed the trail of the Star and, like you, Mr Rutherford, he’d established that I was the last person to see it before it disappeared. He came here to ask me for it.”
Rutherford blanched. “Did he threaten you, Professor?”
Angelchrist chuckled. “Oh, no. Not at all. He was a perfect gentleman. When he discovered the truth about the Star, he was most amused. He seemed to have an appreciation for the irony of the situation. He stayed for a while, telling me something of his exploits, of his long search for the Star, and then left without further ado.”
Rutherford frowned. This didn’t sound like the behaviour of a hardened criminal. “Did he leave you a calling card or a forwarding address? I’ve been tasked with finding him. A threat has been made, you see, and it seems likely that Monsieur Zenith may be behind it.”
Angelchrist shook his head. “This was some months ago now, Mr Rutherford. A man like Monsieur Zenith does not stay still for long,” he replied.
“Nevertheless... do you have any notion of where I might find him?”
Angelchrist shook his head. “I fear not.”
Rutherford gave a resigned sigh. “Then I thank you for your help, Professor. You’ve been most helpful.” He stood, brushing himself down. “I suspected I was hoping for too much
that you might be able to put me on the albino’s trail.”
Angelchrist chuckled. “Ah, now I didn’t say that, Mr Rutherford. If you want to find Monsieur Zenith, then there’s someone I think you should talk with.”
Rutherford dropped back into his seat, intrigued. “Who?”
“Miss Veronica Hobbes,” said Angelchrist.
“Miss Veronica Hobbes?” echoed Rutherford, surprised.
“Indeed. Miss Hobbes has, over the years, had cause to pit her wits against Monsieur Zenith on a number of occasions,” said Angelchrist.
“Alongside Sir Maurice Newbury?” asked Rutherford.
“And alone,” replied Angelchrist, nodding. “If there’s anyone I know who could assist you in this matter, it’s Miss Hobbes.”
Rutherford grinned. “Do you know how to reach her?”
“Indeed I do, Mr Rutherford,” said Angelchrist, heaving himself up out of his chair with a groan. “You wait here for Casper to bring the tea, and I shall make a telephone call.”
III
They met at a restaurant in Kensington, sitting by the window in the shadow of a broad awning. It was a brisk morning and Rutherford would have preferred to sit inside, but the lady seemed intent on sitting out. She sipped at her Earl Grey and watched him over the brim of the teacup, seemingly impervious to the cold.
He watched her in turn, as if they were circling opponents, sizing each other up. After a moment, she spoke. “Well, Mr Rutherford?”
He was about to answer when the waiter bustled over and began describing the specials with great bonhomie. Rutherford found none of the proposed delicacies fired his imagination, so ordered a simple salad, and only then so as not to seem impolite. In truth, he would have been happy to subsist on nothing but strong coffee and cigarettes.
