by Anthology
Soon he was brooding about Queenie again. He reflected bitterly that though she had always been obdurately virtuous as far as he was concerned, another and mysterious valiant might recently have succeeded where he had failed. Muffin had always found the lovely Queenie’s resistance to him doubly vexing, as pious gossips had long since spread tidings of a liaison that did not really exist. And now with this romantic stranger captivating her fancy, he was in a pretty fix indeed.
A cheery “Evening, Guvner!” startled him from his dark reverie. Daisy had stopped of her own accord and he saw the beaming face of Brennan, the corpulent and beery porter of the inn looking up at him.
“ ’Ere we are, sir. ’Ow about an ’and down now, M’lord?”
But Muffin leaped nimbly down unassisted. He chirruped a greeting to the friendly Brennan, patted this rubicund fellow on his huge belly, and strode on into the inn. A warming beaker or two seemed in order. They might clear the brain before he talked to anyone as keen as Tupwell. What is more, he wanted a few words alone with Queenie before the fellow arrived.
Sir Flinders Tupwell, a tall, gaunt, arresting figure, stood somewhat aside from the group waiting for the stage to Twiggers Corners. The celebrated investigator was deep in thought—exactly where he had been during most of the long trip from London to Exeter.
He wrapped the faded plaid shawl more tightly across his broad shoulders, adjusted the skirts of his greatcoat, and pulled the double-billed, checkered hunting cap more firmly over his ears. The long, curve-stemmed ivory pipe sent wistful spirals of gray-blue smoke toward the cold and indifferent winter sky. He wished patiently that the garrulous attendants would finish stowing the baggage.
At last he moved toward the coach where he was jostled by a noisy commercial traveler who had talked incessantly all the way from London. The man still wanted to talk. But he flinched away now as emerald-green eyes blazed at him in disapproval. Tupwell’s paralyzing gaze had been known to freeze royalty. Leaving the fellow open-mouthed, he entered the coach and settled himself for the journey.
Two hours later he descended in front of the Royal Coach Inn, on the coast road, two miles from Twiggers Corners in Devon. He was warmly greeted by a gorgeous flaxen-haired Amazon who snatched up his heavy carpetbag as though it were a toy. This was Queenie Broadaxe, both barmaid and mistress of the establishment, and, as rumor had it, Lord Muffin’s mistress, too. But there was no truth in this canard as we already know. Queenie was the kind to hold out for wedlock.
Magnificently proportioned, she stood an inch over six feet in her stockings and, undoubtedly, she must have weighed close to thirteen stone. Her unusual wealth of flaxen hair crowned a face that Romney would have felt privileged to paint. Her great, lustrous blue eyes were pools for men to drown in. Her deeply swelling bosom, plump white arms, and other superbly rounded proportions were the despair of all swains and the subject of much admiring discussion amongst even casual or itinerant beholders. Queenie had been favorably compared to the splendid and heroic Boadicea of old (a possible ancestress) who had thundered her war chariot against the hated Nero’s Ninth Legion.
She escorted Tupwell to his quarters and then returned to the bar where the tiresome commercial traveler was already impressing the local yokels with his wit and knowledge of the world. Tupwell presently completed his ablutions and went about unpacking his bag. A curiously wrought ivory hand mirror showed him that his long, ascetic face was not in need of shaving. Licorice pellets were placed handily by the bedside along with a Morocco-bound pocket-sized edition of Plato’s Republic. A woolen night shift and cap were laid out upon the bed. His razors and huge badger-hair shaving brush were placed by the washbowl and pitcher. The mouth organ was left in the bag. He made sure the window was closed against the dangerous night air and then descended to the private parlor where Muffin sat, awaiting him before a small fire which was drawing well on the hearth.
They greeted one another and Tupwell sank back in an oddlooking chair which had been a gift to Muffin from his young friend William Morris. Tupwell reported an uneventful trip and then, after helping himself to a glass of Vichy water which he frequently drank, “to insure the integrity of the colonic tract,” as he put it, he lit his huge-bowled pipe. Muffin chose wine from the decanters on a taboret which stood near the fire.
“In the first place,” said Muffin, “Queenie is no fool. And she’s a great respecter of the truth as well as the other virtues —or so I’ve come to believe.”
He scratched his bald head, frowned, and continued, “Knowing she wouldn’t lie, I thought maybe she’d gone potty, so I took her to see Sir Francis Fenton, that neurasthenia feller.”
“Ah, yes, a splendid man,” said Tupwell, “A very advanced thinker, I’ve found. What did he have to say?”
“That she was probably the sanest, healthiest woman he’d ever examined—as well as the most beautiful.” Muffin chuckled and sipped his wine. “The cad suggested maybe I’d better consult him privately about myself and stuck me for two quid! ”
“And well worth it, too, as far as Queenie is concerned,” said Tupwell. “Tell me of this strange prince of hers and his bally-hooly ways.”
“It’s utterly fantastic,” said Muffin, and he drained his glass. “Just fancy! A prince of a strange race from another planet who rushes about in an infernal flying machine of some sort —romancing her and wanting to carry her off—or so she says.”
Tupwell, who had laid aside his pipe, drew a small, brilliantly jeweled snuffbox from the cuff of the velvet dressing gown he had donned. In practiced manner, he placed generous portions in each flaring, patrician nostril.
“I seem to recall your mentioning that these alleged flying machines are supposed to be noiseless and fly at tremendous speeds?”
“True, or so Queenie says this Prince Narko bird told her— that’s apparently what he calls himself. Claims he and his kind have been visiting earth and the other planets for centuries!”
“Hmmm,” Tupwell mused, “most extraordinary indeed!
“But I have believed stranger things in my time.” He extracted a silken handkerchief from his cuff and dabbed delicately at his nose and mouth.
“There is a possibility there may be some small part of truth in all of this. There have been reports for centuries, you know, of strange objects seen in the heavens—most of which have been dismissed as illusion, superstition, or falsehood.” He smiled faintly. “Tell me more of Queenie’s contacts with this engaging fellow.”
“Contacts?” queried Muffin, “I dislike the word in this connection. I’ve always trusted Queenie, damn it, but if I thought for one moment that she’d been—well, oh, you know what I mean, Flinders. I’ve been pretty hopping mad about all of this. I just can’t help wondering . . .”
“Sometimes we are inclined to spend too much time in useless speculation about other people,” said Tupwell. “And frequently we become uncharitable!” He looked directly at Muffin, who flushed. Lord Humphrey rose, stirred the fire idly for a moment, and then refilled his glass.
“I’ve known Queenie for a long time,” he said. “I’ve trusted her completely ever since I bought this inn for her so she could make a decent living. She was an upstairs maid for Sir Walter Hawkins in London, you know.”
“I am aware of that, Humphrey.”
“She’s never made such a fuss about anyone else before, and the way she’s been carrying on about this birdman, or whatever the devil he is, is driving me mad. She swears nothing has really happened—but what am I supposed to think?”
“Well, what are your rights in the matter?”
Muffin reddened again and twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
“In the strict sense of the word I suppose I haven’t any rights in the matter. I mean we’ve never, well, er, confound it all, I’ve spent a lot of time and money on her, that’s all And if I thought for one minute that anybody else had . . .”
“You mean that your relations have been strictly platonic and of a purely busi
ness nature?”
“My dear fellow!” Muffin rose and refilled his glass. Plumping himself on a hassock near Tupwell’s chair, he reflected for a moment before continuing.
“I suppose I’d resent that from anyone else,” he said, “but I know you’re only teasing. Queenie is a very determined girl about some things . . .”
“Her determination is most admirable—and I was only teasing, of course.”
“Good! Let’s get back to the story then. Narko came in here for the first time a couple of months ago, just at closing time. Queenie was alone and probably he’d been waiting for such a chance. She was impressed by his strange appearance and his odd, stiff-legged gait. Like somebody walking on stilts, she said. She raved to me about his wonderful violet eyes and the way they and his brows seem to slant upward. To the outside. He wears a short, curly, pointed beard and his ears come almost to a point at the tops. You’d think he was as handsome as Lucifer himself, to hear her go on, damn it all!”
“A seemingly apt analogy,” smiled Tupwell.
“Queenie says she’s seen someone who looks like him before somewhere. She thinks maybe it was in a painting,” said Muffin.
“Ha! Fauns and satyrs and the like, eh?”
“Precisely my thoughts. You know, I’m damned if I like it, silly as it may seem.” He rose and added coal to the fire, then refilled his glass. “He’s a smooth article whoever or whatever he is. Silky as a spider web, too, curse him! He’s been ever so charming and ever so proper—a real perfect gent. He fed her a great deal of cunning flattery, right from the start, apparently.”
“And where did he say he came from?”
“He didn’t say—just that he was a stranger, a foreigner and lonely, blast him! It was some time later that he told her about the other planet nonsense. But he asked her a lot of questions and wormed a good deal of information out of her. He seemed to know a bit about me and he was kind enough to predict that I’d go far in politics, the unctuous blighter! But I’m getting ahead of my story!”
“Did he say where he was staying?”
“No. Just that he was with friends, as he put it. He did say that he expected to be in the neighborhood for some time. He left, that first time, after having a couple of beers. He didn’t stay long but he seems to have mesmerized her right from the start. She didn’t even notice whether he was riding or not or what direction he went in when he left.”
“Had any of the tracks been noticed before this?” asked Tupwell, with sudden interest.
“Not to my knowledge. I don’t think they were seen until a few days before I saw you in London.”
“I see,” said Tupwell, leaning back once more in his chair.
“After I started putting two and two together I thou Air you’d better come down here and look things over.” said Muffin.
“Perhaps it’s just as well I decided to come,” Sir Flanders replied. “I’ll look the ground over a bit later but I want all possible information first. . . . When did he appear again?”
“At closing time the very next night . . . and frequently after that until recently when something happened between them. I haven’t been able to get it out of Queenie yet. She seems embarrassed. Dash it all, if I thought that swine had laid his dirty hands on her . . .”
“There is always reason to suspect such an eventuality when a woman as striking as Queenie is involved,” said Tupwell pontifically.
“Damn it all, Flinders, where do you suppose that leaves me, if that’s the case?”
“Approximately where you deserve to be, I should say. Sometimes men can be very irrational. You, for example, are feeling a great sense of moral outrage because you suspect someone else of perhaps succeeding in a villainy you’ve obviously failed in yourself. Don’t talk rubbish, Muffin. Now, where did he finally tell her he came from?” Muffin was silent for a moment before answering. “Another planet, was all he said. But he made her promise not to mention even that. I’m glad she told me, I must confess. Who else would believe her, though? After coming back here every night for weeks he finally tried to persuade her to ran off with him. He’d had a lot to drink that night and told her it was the first time he’d taken a load aboard in centuries . . . centuries, mind you. Said alcohol didn’t agree with his kind very well.”
“Significant, that last,” observed Tupwell. He made no further comment though Muffin glanced at him quizzically. Muffin continued.
“Probably sends them to pot like some of our people in the tropics—or maybe they’re like the American Red Indians with alcohol—enthusiastic for it but incapable of handling the stuff!”
Tupwell chuckled. “Didn’t he say his people had been here a long time back—trying to colonize the earth?”
“Why yes,” said Muffin, puzzled, “But I didn’t remember telling you that. Queenie said he told her they’d tried to cross-breed with our women as their birth rate was bad but that they’d been forced to leave by another interplanetary people stronger than they . . . Wow!” He jumped to his feet as a horrifying thought struck him. “I wonder if that dirty goathead had any such ideas about Queenie? I’ll skewer his tripes if I ever get my hands on him!”
“Calm down, Muffin,” said Tupwell. “We have no such evidence, have we?” He smiled archly at Humphrey, who flushed and stalked over to the taboret where he slopped wine trying to refill his glass. He finally succeeded and drained it off at a gulp. Filling the glass again he stumped back and plumped himself once more on the hassock.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said, “I’m afraid that Queenie sat up too late all too frequently with that swine. She looked run down and peaked and that’s when I started questioning her. That’s how I found out about brother Narko . . . and his bloody plots!”
“Plots? What plots?”
“Penny Dreadful stuff, I’m sure. But he swore her to secrecy about it all and tried to involve her, with all sorts of silly promises about wealth and power when he and his bully boys took over England . . . and then the earth, rot him!
Tupwell’s long-jawed face glittered in the light from the gas lamp. “Rubbish!” he said.
“That’s what I thought. A stupid tack to try to overwhelm her. One curious thing, though . . . it really has me puzzled. I mentioned something earlier about Narko referring to me and politics, you may recall? Well, the devil seems to have a remarkable gift for prophecy. He told Queenie at least six weeks ago that Palmerston would succeed to power . . . that’s why I gambled on that speech of mine, suggesting him. Everyone thought I was crazy or drunk and ignored me and the speech. But you know what’s happened. Palmerston’s in and I’ve been offered the Foreign Office.”
“What else did he prophesy?” asked Tupwell smoothly.
“A growing liberalism in government and eventually, widespread socialism, if you can imagine anything so preposterous,” laughed Muffin.
Tupwell’s curious green eyes glittered again in the gas light. “What do you really suppose brought Narko to Queenie in the first place?” he asked, silkily changing the subject.
“Why, damn it, sir, she’s the handsomest woman in England . . . why wouldn’t he run to her?” Muffin sighed and rose a bit unsteadily to his feet. He went to the taboret where he gulped down another glass of wine.
“Easy does it, old onion,” warned Tupwell, “I wouldn’t worry about Queenie if I were you. She’s well able to look after herself, I’m perfectly certain . . .”
A loud crash from the direction of the taproom and the sound of voices in uproar interrupted Sir Flinders’ statement. Thrashing and bumping noises continued as both men moved swiftly toward the scene of strife.
They arrived just in time to see Queenie hustling a struggling but impotent male figure out the door—by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants. As the figure hurtled into the night, a large foot whacked solidly into its backside and it sprawled on its belly in the snow. A large portmanteau and a sample case went flying after it. It was the commercial traveler.
“There,
tyke that, you blighter!” she cried, her cheeks crimson, “Imagine the nerve of ’im!” she panted.
“What’s happened, Queenie, what did he do?” asked Muffin, who was now watching the retreating and vanquished figure slip and slide down the road, bags banging against legs, striving for speed.
“I spotted ’im for a bad ’un the moment ’e cyme in ’ere,” said she. “Leering at me all night, ’e was. And ogglin’ and telling riskeye stories in me presence, too. And lying and boasting to the villagers like any blow’ard. The kind to drink ’is own bawth water, that type. Then, when the honest folks ’ad gone ’ome, ’e ’as the gall to myke an indecent suggestion to me. ’E’s lucky I didn’t bryke ’is ruddy neck.”
“The bounder, I’ll fix him,” roared Muffin, starting out the door. But he was plucked back by a large, plump arm.
“ ’Ere, ’ere, ’Umphrey, no more trouble now. ’E’s gone and let’s forget ’im. Why don’t you ’ave your supper now. Poor Sir Flinders must be starved.” She smiled at Tupwell and led them into the dining room.
The boiled mutton was superb; the boiled potatoes, excellent; the boiled vegetables, splendid. But Muffin scarcely noticed any of this. He continued to work on the wine, obviously uneasy and his mind on other things. For one thing, he had just recalled that his saddle bags were still stuffed with the variety of lace caps, lace stockings, sugar plums, comfits, beribboned garters and the like which he had brought for Queenie. For another, it was late and he wanted badly to talk to her and he wished Tupwell would finish and get on with his investigations.
But Tupwell was a careful and appreciative trencherman who savored each bite methodically. When finally, to Muffin’s great relief, he had polished off the last of a brilliant suet and treacle pudding, he excused himself and made his way to his room.
Donning stout leather gaiters, heavy overshoes, a flannel chest protector, and a long woolen scarf, he slipped into his hunting jacket and wrapped the faded plaid shawl about his shoulders. Then, checking his pockets for compass, lucifers, magnifying glass, pistols and brandy, he pulled on a checkered fore-and-aft cap and descended once more to the taproom. Muffin was working on a long brandy and soda while Queenie was wiping down the bar.
