The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (32 page)

“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.

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.”

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.

The waiter hurried off again and the woman—Miss Veronica Hobbes—waited patiently as Rutherford slowly extracted a cigarette from his silver tin, lit it with a match and took a long, welcome draw.

She was not at all what he’d been expecting. He wasn’t sure what he
had
been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. He supposed he’d imagined she’d seem older, more like Angelchrist, a relic of a bygone age.

In fact, she was far younger than Angelchrist, and although she was in her early fifties, she had the look of an attractive woman ten years her junior. Her hair did not yet show signs of turning to grey, remaining a dark, voluminous brown, and aside from a tiny, sickle-shaped scar on her left cheek, her skin was unlined and unblemished. Her eyes were striking and full of life and energy.

Strangely, Rutherford thought he could hear a faint ticking sound as he leaned closer to her across the table, as if she were harbouring a small carriage clock in her handbag. He decided it would be impolite to enquire.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, sincerely. “I imagine you know who I represent?”

She smiled knowingly and took another sip of her tea. “I know that you work for the Secret Service, if that’s what you mean?” she said, quietly, so that they might not be overheard. “I know that you’re on the trail of the albino prince, and that you don’t have any idea of where to begin, or whether he even actually exists at all.”

Rutherford laughed. “Yes,” he confirmed. “That’s about the size of it, Miss Hobbes.” She was clearly more informed than he’d anticipated, too. He made a mental note not to underestimate this striking woman. “Although Professor Angelchrist assures me as to the corporeal nature of the villain,” he added.

Miss Hobbes smiled and placed her teacup gently on its saucer. “Oh, he exists, Mr Rutherford. I can very much attest to that.”

Rutherford blew smoke from the corner of his mouth, watching as it was quickly dispersed on the frigid breeze. “The professor mentioned you’d had occasion to go up against Monsieur Zenith during your time in active service?”

Miss Hobbes laughed, and her face lit up in amusement. “He does have a way with understatement,” she said.

“Indeed?” prompted Rutherford.

She sighed, indulgently. “One does not simply trifle with Zenith, Mr Rutherford. To him it’s all a game, you see? All of it. He revels in the tëte-à-tëte. Once you engage, it becomes a battle of wits, a game of chess, played out across many years and many continents.”

“And you, Miss Hobbes—you entered into this game with the albino?”

“I had little choice. Our paths crossed during an investigation, and he became...
intrigued
by me. In the years following the war, barely a month would go by without our meeting once again. His criminal activities were diverse and reckless, but never, ever, boring. Stolen works of art, voodoo cults, ancient curses, flesh golems and clockwork shop dummies—just a few of the nefarious schemes to which I found myself in opposition.” Miss Hobbes paused as the waiter delivered her sandwich to the table. “Another pot of tea, please, waiter,” she said, with a smile. “Earl Grey.” She glanced at Rutherford. “I’ve developed something of a taste for it. It’s all Maurice will ever drink.”

Rutherford laughed. “And how did Sir Maurice feel about all of this attention you received from Monsieur Zenith?”

Miss Hobbes raised a single eyebrow. “Oh, Zenith was only ever interested in the game, Mr Rutherford. I just happened to be another of the players.” She picked at her sandwich. “Over time, his interest waned. Perhaps I became predictable, too easy to anticipate? Now, I believe, he has engaged another playmate. Nevertheless, I often wonder if, perhaps one day, I shall hear from him again.”

“I thought you had retired, Miss Hobbes,” said Rutherford.

“People like us never retire, Mr Rutherford. We simply grow older, and slow down.” She smiled. “Here comes your salad.”

Rutherford stubbed out the remains of his cigarette as the waiter placed the plate on the table.

“I need to find him, Miss Hobbes,” he said, once they were alone again.

“Yes, I daresay the Prime Minister has suffered a few sleepless nights of late,” said Miss Hobbes, wryly.

Rutherford grinned, despite himself. “Yes, I daresay he has.”

“I fear Monsieur Zenith is a wily devil, Mr Rutherford. He shall not be easy to find.”

“I don’t doubt it, Miss Hobbes. But do you know where I can even begin my search? You mentioned that Zenith has engaged another in his games.”

Miss Hobbes grinned. “Indeed. There’s a man, a detective, who lives on Baker Street.” She reached for her handbag. “Let me give you his address.”