I did sign Mr Rune's contract, and I signed it in blood.
I don't know exactly why I did it; somehow it just seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. Ludicrous, I agree; absurd, I also agree; and dangerous, too, I agree once again. And perhaps that was it – the danger. I did not know who I was. I did not know who Mr Rune was. And even now, some one hundred years later as I set pen to paper and relate the experiences and adventures that I had with Hugo Rune, I cannot truly say that I ever actually knew whom or, indeed, what he really was. AlthoughBut that although is for later. For the now, from that day before yesterday to which I had been returned from the dead, I inhabited rooms at forty-nine Grand Parade, Brighton, in the employ of Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune, Mumbo Gumshoe, Hokus Bloke, Cosmic Dick, Lad Himself and the Re-inventor of the Ocarina. And he and I were bored.
Perhaps the life of ease and idleness had never appealed to me. Perhaps I had never experienced it before and therefore did not know how to appreciate it properly. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
On the day that I had signed Mr Rune's contract, with blood drawn from my left thumb, he had taken me off to the tailoring outlets of Brighton and had me fitted with several suits of clothes. I recall that no money exchanged hands during these transactions and that there was much talk from Mr Rune about 'putting things on his account'. And much protestation from the managers of the tailoring outlets. But somehow we gained possession of said suits of clothes and I became decently clad and most stylishly clad, also. Which Mr Rune explained was just as one should look when one engaged in regular dining out.
Dining out was evidently one of Mr Rune's favourite occupations. The man consumed food with the kind of gusto with which a Blue Peter presenter might consume cocaine*. Mr Rune really knew how to put the tucker away. And he did it, as he did everything else, with considerable style. Although, sadly, he enjoyed the most rotten luck when it came to restaurants. No matter where we dined, and I recall that we never dined in the same restaurant twice * Allegedly. for reasons that I will now explain, the outcome of each meal was inevitably the same. Mr Rune would fill himself to veritable excess, consuming the costliest viands upon the menu, along with the most expensive wines on offer, and would sing the praises of the chef throughout the consumption of each dish. And then, calamity.
We would be upon our final course – the Black Forest gateau or the cheese and the biscuits – when Mr Rune would be consumed with a fit of coughing. I would hasten to his assistance, patting away at his ample back and thereby mercifully sparing him a choking as he coughed up a bone. A rat bone!
I genuinely felt for the fellow. How unfair it was that it should always be he who suffered in this dreadful fashion, he who appreciated his food so much, who chose only to dine in the most exclusive restaurants. Our evening would be well and truly spoiled. Words would be exchanged, harsh words on the part of Mr Rune, words which included the phrases 'a report being put in to the Department of Health' and imminent closure of this establishment'.
On the bright side, I never saw Mr Rune actually pay for a meal; indeed, on occasion he received a cash sum in compensation for the unfortunate incidents. And, hearty and unfailingly cheerful as the man was, he always wore a smile when he and I walked away from the restaurant in question.
We dined out, and we purchased clothes and sundry other necessities, mostly of an extravagant nature, and always 'on account', but if the solving of crime was Mr Rune's metier, then it appeared that either there was no crime at all upon the streets of Brighton to be solved, or that it was all being amply dealt with by the local constabulary. No one, it seemed, required the talents of 'the world's foremost metaphysical detective'. I had been with Mr Rune for three weeks now and I was no nearer either to recovering my memory or to aiding him 'to solve the inexplicable conundrums that baffle the so-called experts at Scotland Yard'. Although I had heard him play the ocarina many times.
Upon this particular day, an unseasonably sunny day in March, Mr Rune and I lazed in deckchairs upon Brighton beach enjoying the contents of a hamper that had recently arrived from Fortnum and Mason, for which Rune had failed to pay cash on delivery due to some oversight upon the part of his banker that would be dealt with at the earliest convenience.
'I do not wish to complain,' I said to Mr Rune, 'for I am certainly enjoying my time with you and I am sure that I have never been so well dressed and well fed in my life, but I do recall you saying that you would have cases to solve, the outcome of which would save Mankind as we know it, or some such thing.'
'I will pardon your lapse from articulacy upon this occasion,' said the Logos of the Aeon, adjusting his sunspecs and straightening the hem of the Aloha shirt he was presently sporting, the one with the bare-naked ladies printed upon it. 'I assume it to mean that you are presently piddled.' 'Are you suggesting that I am drunk?' I enquired.
'You have imbibed almost an entire bottle of vintage champagne, one of the finest that salubrious establishment, Mulhollands of Hove held in their reserve stock.' 'You drank the first bottle without offering me any.' 'The thirst was upon me. I abhor inactivity.'
'That is what I am talking about. Where are these exciting cases of which you spoke? What about the danger and adventure?'
'Marshal your energies, for these things will shortly come to pass.' 'But when?'
Rune drew in a mighty breath and sighed a mighty sigh. Bare-naked ladies rose and fell erotically upon his bosom. 'No one knocks,' said he. 'I would confess to perplexity if I did not bow to inevitable consequence and fortuitous circumstance and understand how the transperambulations of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter shape the substance of the universe.'
'I have no idea what you are talking about,' I said. And I did not.
'All right,' sighed Mr Rune. 'Cast your eye over this and give me your considered opinion. Your considered opinion only – do we understand each other?'
'Not very often,' I said and snatched at the object that Rune tossed in my direction. It was an envelope.
'I retrieved it from my post-office box this very morning,' said the Cosmic Dick, by way of small explanation.
Rune had previously opened the envelope, so I removed its contents – a letter – and read it aloud: Dear Mr Rune
I saw your advert in the Evening Argus, that you 'offer satisfaction to those cheated of justice by the British legal system, the constabulary in particular' and that you 'specialise in crimes that are above and beyond the ordinary'. Well, I have one for you.
I am a breeder of rare canines; indeed, my family has been so for several generations. We are well known for it in these parts. And famous, too, having won many ribbons at Crufts – two First Places, a Best in Show and a Wettest Nose three years running. My husband Neville didn't want me to contact you. He says that you blokes don't know sh*t from sugar'What is "sh*t"?' I asked Mr Rune. And Mr Rune told me. 'Oh,' I said. 'Well, that is cr*p, in my opinion.' 'Continue reading the letter.' I did so.
But I want this sorted. It's not right, this kind of thing, and someone should do something about it. I hope you can. Yours sincerely, Aimee Orion (Missus).
'What do you make of it?' Mr Rune asked, as he acquainted himself with ajar of pickled quails' eggs.
'Seems a bit vague,' I replied. 'It does not actually say what crime has been committed.'
'Oh, come now.' Mr Rune leaned over to me and snatched back the letter. 'It says a great deal more than that.' 'It does?' I asked. 'What does it say?'
'It says, for one thing, that it was not written by a woman.' 'It does not? Or rather, it does? Does it?' 'You are piddled,' said Mr Rune. 'This is written in a man's hand.' 'It is typewritten,' I said. 'Exactly.' 'What?' 'Lost dog,' said Mr Rune. 'Or, more accurately, stolen.' 'A lost dog. That is not much of a case.'
Mr Rune tapped his nose. And did so with the quails' egg jar, spilling vinegar all down his front. The bare-naked ladies looked even more appealing when wet.
'You intend to track down a lost dog?' I reacquainted myself with the champagne bottle, or more accurately sought to, as Rune had drawn it beyond my reach and was guzzling freely from its neck. 'Call me a cab,' said Mr Rune. 'You are a cab,' said I, giggling foolishly (I confess it). 'Buffoon,' said Mr Rune. 'What do you know of Hangleton?'
'Hangleton?' I scratched at the knotted hankie that adorned my head to stave off sunstroke.
'Hangleton,' said Mr Rune once more. 'The address at the top of the letter. Hangleton.' 'Sorry,' said I. 'I did not read the address. But I have been to Hangleton. I have wandered all over Brighton during the last three weeks, in the hope that something would stir my memory. Hangleton is a rather nice place, lots of nineteen-thirties-style houses. They even have their own loony bin.' 'Suggestive,' said Mr Rune. 'I am not,' said I. 'Call me a cab.' 'It's not funny twice.' 'Do you have a mobile phone?'
'Obviously not,' I said. 'They have not yet been invented.'
'Details, details.' Mr Rune raised his left hand. Upon the promenade above, a cab slewed to a sudden halt. 'Bring the hamper,' said the Hokus Bloke. 'We are travelling to Hangleton.' The cab conveyed us to Hangleton. The cabbie, a truculent fellow who rejoiced in the name of Jonie and supported Newcastle United 'no matter what, and the Devil take the man who says otherwise', discoursed upon the nature of cheese throughout our journey, lingering long upon its supposedly medicinal qualities and how his wife's gout had been cured by Gouda.
Mr Rune sat passively throughout both journey and discourse, occasionally drawing melodic notes from his reinvented ocarina, and only raised the stout stick that he always carried with him and struck down the cabbie when, upon reaching our destination, the surly fellow had the effrontery to protest about Mr Rune's suggestion that the fare be put on his (Mr Rune's) account.
'You knocked him unconscious,' I said, as we strolled along Tudor Close, the midday sunlight prettifying the mock-Tudor houses, clipped box hedges and front-garden ornamentation.
'Gouda for gout, indeed!' said Mr Rune in a mocking tone, 'It's Roquefort for gout and Gouda for goitres. I can't be doing with a cabbie who is ignorant in The Way of the Cheese.'
'I have to agree with you there,' I said. 'I think this must be the house.' 'Why?' Mr Rune asked.
'Because of the big sign in the front garden saying "Dogs R Us".'
Mr Rune nodded approvingly. 'And that sign brings to mind something that I should have mentioned to you earlier – to whit, the Chevalier Effect.' 'And what might that be?' I enquired.
'An effect most pertinent. You will find that when you come to write up your memoirs of our time together – memoirs which, be assured of this, will become an international bestseller – certain details will become subject to the Chevalier Effect.'
I did thoughtful noddings of the head, at which Mr Rune rolled his eyes.
'Allow me to explain, in as few words as are necessary,' said he. 'It will be many years before your book is published, and when it is, some reader will take issue with the accuracy of what you have written. They will feel absolutely certain that there were no establishments called "Something Or Other R Us" in the nineteen sixties.'
'Then they will be wrong,' said I, 'because we are standing before just such an establishment even as we speak.'
'Precisely,' said Mr Rune. 'Such contradictions are due to the Chevalier Effect.' 'Is it like the Greenhouse Effect?' I asked.
'No,' said Mr Rune. 'It is not. But the same reader will also observe that the term "Greenhouse Effect" was not coined until later in the twentieth century either.'
'I hate to contradict this historically inclined future reader,' I said, 'but I think you will find that I have just mentioned the Greenhouse Effect.'
Mr Rune nodded sagely. 'I agree completely, young Rizla,' he said. 'So kindly open your ears and mind to what I have to tell you.'
I did my best to do these things, and partially achieved them.
'The Chevalier Effect is named after the popular entertainer Maurice Chevalier, and the famous song that he sang.'
'"Thank Heavens For Little Girls"?' I enquired. 'I believe it has always been my opinion that there is something not altogether wholesome about the French.'
'I share this opinion,' said Mr Rune. 'But the song I am referring to is "I Remember It Well" from the motion picture Gigi, sung by Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold.'
'I know the song,' I said. 'It is about two people recalling the night they first met, but they cannot agree on the details and contradict each other throughout. To somewhat mild comic effect, I have to say. I consider Bernard Cribbins's "Hole In the Ground" far funnier.'
'I share this opinion also,' said Mr Rune. 'The Chevalier Effect is to do with the decay of time. Once an event has occurred and becomes memory, decay sets in and things run together. Folk recall the event differently: some see it this way, some that way.'
'That is because some of them are right and some of them are wrong in their recollections,' I assured the Perfect Master.
'Incorrect,' he replied. 'They are all right. It is the decay of time that is to blame, not their faltering memories.'
'They cannot all be right,' I protested. 'An event can only occur one way. We are either standing outside an establishment called Dogs R Us, or we are not. Which is it?'
Mr Rune gave his nose a significant tap. 'When you write your memoirs of our time together, there will be many such anomalies. You will be certain that, for example, a certain song existed at the time, or a certain newspaper, or a certain television personality. Or indeed, that a certain establishment was called Dogs R Us.' 'Which it is,' I said.
'Which it is,' Mr Rune agreed. 'But when you hand your manuscript to a publishing editor, that esteemed personage will take issue with the accuracy of your revelations. They will say that such and such a person did not do such and such a thing in the nineteen sixties. They will doubt the authenticity of your account of events, based upon these anachronisms.'
'Then I will leave them out,' I said, 'or let the publishing editor change them.'
'You will not!' cried Mr Rune, and he drew himself up to his full and improbable height. 'You will insist that they remain and you will explain about the Chevalier Effect.' 'That sign definitely does say Dogs R Us,' I said.
'Then you will stick to your guns, young Rizla. I have faith in you.' Mr Rune plucked leaves from the hedge and let them fall to the pavement. 'And now I will explain to you exactly how the Chevalier Effect works, so that you may set it down in your chronicles to explain all the seeming anomalies and anachronisms.'
And so Mr Rune did. He spoke with erudition, using terms easily understandable by the layman. And I do have to say that when he had reached his conclusion, I, for one, was truly convinced and would number myself amongst the converted. Because, after all, I was there and that sign really did say Dogs R Us!
I would set down here all that he told me, but to do so would be to waste precious time. However, the reader may rest assured that everything chronicled within the pages of this international bestseller did indeed occur as written. And that all the seeming anomalies – indeed, anachronisms even – that appear, such as in Chapter Four with the mention of alcopops, gay icons and certain dead rock stars, are not there due to poor editing; rather, they are there because they were there at the time. Due to the Chevalier Effect. Which explains everything. Obviously.
'So,' said Mr Rune, 'now that we have cleared that up, there is one further thing I must warn you about. In this case, as in others, there is bound to be a spaniel involved.'
'I have no fear of spaniels,' I said, and I crossed my heart as I said so, to add weight to my words. 'Spaniels hold no dread for me. Big soppy things, they all are.'
'On that we are both agreed. But I promise you that there will be spaniel involvement, so remain vigilant and always upon your guard.' 'You are surely joking?'
'I never joke,' said Mr Rune. 'I jibe, I mock, I ridicule, but I do these things only to be cruel to be kind. You have a big spot on the back of your neck, by the way. Here, take this and pin it to your shirtfront.' 'What is it?' I asked. 'A badge,' said Mr Rune. 'It has the head of a spaniel upon it,' I observed.
Mr Rune gave his great nose a significant tapping. 'A word to the wise,' said he. 'Wear the badge with pride. And keep both your ears and your eyes wide open.'
I pinned the badge to my shirtfront, avoiding, by sheer luck alone, severe nipple puncturation. 'Shall we go and knock on the door?' I asked. 'To what end, exactly?' 'To summon the woman, or man, who wrote to you.'
'Ah,' said Mr Rune. 'Of course, you do not – as yet -know my methods. We will not knock on the door. We will wait for our client to come to us.'
'I am confused,' I said. 'And I feel a bit of a ninny wearing this badge. What are those garden gnomes doing, by the way?' And I pointed to the pair of gnomes that had caught my attention. 'Copulating,' said Mr Hugo Rune. 'Now duck your head.' 'Why?' 'Just duck it.' I ducked as requested, registered a loud report and felt a searing of my sun-blocking headwear. 'Ouch,' was what I had to say.
'Keep your head down,' said Mr Rune. 'We are being fired upon.'
I crouched in the shelter of a clipped box hedge. I tore my hankie from my head and examined it. To my horror, it had been scorched along its length by the passage of a bullet. 'By Crimbo,' I exclaimed. 'I have been shot.' 'You are unharmed.'
'Shot!' There was horror in my voice. 'You promised me excitement, but not an untimely death. Are such unwarranted attacks a day-to-day occurrence with you?'
'Plah!' said Mr Hugo Rune. 'I trust that you are not going to panic'
'On the contrary. I only seek to retreat to a safe distance. Possibly London. Farewell.' 'Timid,' said Mr Rune. 'As I feared.' 'Gunman,' said I. 'Have fear of him.' 'He wasn't firing at us.'
'No? At whom, then? And look at the state of my hankie – it is ruined.' 'Wave it above your head.' 'And that will help, will it?' 'Just wave the hankie – higher now, that's right.' 'I am so sorry, I truly am.' 'I did not say that,' I said. 'I didn't think that you did,' said Mr Rune, and he rose once more to his considerable height. 'I truly am so sorry.'
I rose to what height I myself possessed and gazed towards the apologist, who stood on the other side of the clipped box hedge.
Now, as I have said, Mr Rune was tall, tall was Mr Rune, and big around with it, but the fellow beyond the hedge was taller still. Tall was he, and all over gaunt.
I looked up at the tallster and I was most impressed. And then I said something I should not have said, because I was still upset. 'You nearly shot my bl**dy head off, Rasputin!' I declared. 'Bl**dy?' said Mr Hugo Rune. 'Rasputin?' said the tallster.
'Yes,' said I. 'You look like Rasputin, with that gaunt face and big black beard and long black cloak and everything. And you shot me. I demand that you pay for a new headkerchief
The blackly bearded tallster blinked at me with his deeply set cadaverous eyes, opened his mouth to expose twin rows of pointy teeth, then closed it again with an audible snap. A rooftop pigeon took flight and a dog howled in the distance. And then many more howled close at hand.
'My apologies once more,' said the tall, gaunt fellow. 'It was an accident, I assure you. I was cleaning my fowling piece by the window when a spaniel nudged my elbow.'
I glanced towards Mr Rune, who grinned at me and winked.
'Mister Neville Orion?' he then said, putting forward his hand above the hedge for a shake. 'My name is Hugo Rune. I received your letter this morning.' 'My letter?' said Mr Orion, ignoring the proffered hand.
'Indubitably.' Mr Rune withdrew his unshaken hand. 'I suggest that you do not take up forgery as a second occupation. The signature of your wife was most unconvincing.'
I viewed the face of the long, thin fellow. Deep in the shadows of their sockets, his eyes were veritably twinkling.
'Excellent,' said he. 'Pray, come inside.' And he indicated the front-garden gate.
The howling of the close-at-hand hounds had not yet abated and I made a doubtful face. 'They are caged,' said Mr Orion. 'Follow me.'
I followed Mr Rune, who followed Mr Orion. Mr Orion followed the garden path and this led us all to the house. The hallway led to a front sitting room and soon we were sitting within it.
It was your typical suburban front sitting room, with a typical settee and matching armchairs. There was a typical standard lamp, a typical plant in a typical pot, a carpet that was absolutely typical and a tank containing typical fish. 'Actually, they are tropical fish,' said Mr Orion. 'They appear to be dead,' I said.
'Typical,' said Mr Orion. 'I expect the wife forgot to feed them. Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea, or would you prefer something stronger?'
'Something stronger will be fine,' said Mr Rime, idly drumming his fingers upon the typically embroidered arm-socks of his chair.
Mr Orion called out at the top of his voice, 'Bring rope, woman,' he called. 'And don't try fobbing our guests off with string.'
Presently, a most glamorous woman appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray that was anything but typical, it being a tray that had no bottom and such slender sides as to be almost no sides at all. There was plenty of top to this tray, however, and upon this rested three lengths of rope. The woman presented the tray and its cargo to Mr Hugo Rune. 'There, sir,' she said.
Mr Rune nodded thoughtfully but made no motion towards accepting the tray. His eyes were upon the woman – indeed, upon her breasts.
Now, these were, for all this world and whatever lies beyond it, a most remarkable pair of breasts. Clearly of an independent nature, they sought escape from the constraints of both bra and blouse and appeared to be upon the point of gaining freedom.
Mr Orion made impatient toe-tappings. 'I suggest we get down to business,' he said.
'And clearly a most remarkable business it is, too,' said Mr Rune, finally accepting the tray and hauling his eyes from the breasts of Mrs Orion. 'These ropes, although clearly strong, appear to have been ripped apart.' 'Precisely,' said Mr Orion. 'Not bitten through,' said Mr Rune. 'This was my conclusion.'
I gave my chin a bit of a scratch – it needed a shave, which I found encouraging as I was hoping to grow a fashionable goatee as soon as I was able. This talk of rope, however, perplexed me. 'I am perplexed,' I said. 'Silence, Rizla,' said Mr Rune. 'This is no time for idle chitchat. Watch, listen and, hopefully, learn.' 'I would not mind a cup of tea,' I said. 'Janet,' said Mr Orion to his wife, 'take young Rizla here to the kitchenette and give him tea.' I glanced towards Mr Rune. 'Go,' said he.
I followed Mrs Orion to the kitchenette. She was wearing a very short skirt, that woman was, stretched over a lovely bottom. Her legs were rather lovely too, and I decided that I must habitually harbour a fancy for women who wore stiletto heels, because I certainly harboured one now.
I did not take much to the kitchenette. There were no units, nor labour-saving devices, nor even a cheese press, a butter churn, a yoghurt stretcher or a cream fondler, nor indeed any other artefact requisite to the refinement or processing of dairy products. I considered the mincer to be of an inferior design, one which in itself would have saved no labour whatsoever, and the rubber tea towel holder beside the sink was sorely perished and in need of replacement.
But these things were neither here, nor there, nor any place other to me.
'You'll have to mime the drinking of the tea,' said the lovely Mrs Orion. 'The kettle's on the blink and the milkman hasn't delivered today. The world is coming to an end and there's a fact for you to be going on with.' 'I do not think it is quite that bad,' I said. 'The optimism of youth,' said Mrs Orion.
'I have half a bottle of champagne in my hamper here,' I said, indicating the Fortnum's hamper, which could so easily have vanished from my possession due to poor continuity, but had not. 'If you have two glasses, we might finish it off.'
'You are a little ray of sunshine.' Mrs Orion reached up to a high shelf in search of glasses, then, finding none, bent over to seek at floor level. I looked on approvingly.
'He hides them,' said Mrs Orion. 'He doesn't trust glasses. Never trust anything that you can see right through, he says. Hates air with a vigour – he wouldn't breathe at all if he didn't have to.'
'Perhaps they are on that very high shelf,' I suggested. 'You could climb up on that kitchen stool and look.'
They were not on the very high shelf. But to be absolutely certain, I persuaded Mrs Orion to take a second look. And I looked on approvingly.
'We'll have to use tea cups,' said Mrs Orion. 'There are some dried-on tea leaves in the bottoms, but from what I know of Tetleymancy*, they foretell moderate good fortune for at least one of us.'
I opened up the hamper, took out the champagne, uncorked the bottle and decanted some of it. 'What is all this business with the rope?' I asked the lady of the house.
'A horrible to-do,' she said. 'The police are baffled, which is why I had my husband write to Mister Rune. If anyone can sort this out, it's him.' 'Is Mister Rune famous, then?' I asked.
Mrs Orion shrugged. 'I've never heard of him,' she said. 'Inspector Hector gave me his name.' 'Inspector Hector?' I said.
'Of the Brighton constabulary.' Mrs Orion sipped at her champagne. 'He said that Mister Rune left a pile of flyers on the front desk of the police station, advertising his services as a metaphorical detective.'
'Metaphysical detective,' I said. 'And this Inspector Hector personally recommended Mister Rune?'
'Well, not as such. He did say that-the case was right up Mister Rune's street. And he said that he'd carelessly thrown away all the flyers, but Mister Rune's advert was sure to be in the local paper amongst all the others for "personal services". And he said something else.' 'Go on,' I said.
'He said that if I met up with Mister Rune, I was to mention the matter of the twenty guineas he had borrowed from Inspector Hector and has yet to pay back.' * Divination by tealeaves, as if you didn't already know. 'Right,' I said. 'More champagne?' 'Well, it does go straight to my head.'
'I will refill your cup, then.' And I did so. 'Am I to understand,' I asked, 'that you have lost a dog? Is that what this case is all about? The one that has the police baffled and Inspector Hector recommending the services of Mister Hugo Rune?'
'Not lost,' said Mrs Orion, supping further champagne and hiccoughing prettily, 'but stolen. Our prize-winning Spanikov.'
'Spanikov?' I said, feigning the pouring of champagne into my own cup and giving Mrs Orion's a further topping-up.
'It's a rare Russian breed of spaniel, probably the only one of its kind in the country – maybe even in the world.'
'Very valuable, then?' I brought out the jar of pickled quails' eggs and unscrewed its lid. 'Those are funny-looking onions,' said Mrs Orion.
'The dog,' said I, 'this Spanikov – is it a very valuable dog?'
'Very valuable and very big, too.' Mrs Orion dug her fingers into the jar and speared a quail's egg with her lengthy thumbnail. 'Almost the size of a horse.' 'A horse!' I said. 'A spaniel the size of a horse?'
'Well, a Shetland pony, perhaps, but there's no telling, is there? It's like a pig.' 'It looks like a pig?'
'No, that's not what I mean. I mean there's no telling how big a pig can grow. They're always slaughtered when they reach a certain age, so there's no telling how big a pig might grow if it escaped into the wild and lived out its natural lifespan. Which might be anything up to three hundred years, like a tortoise.' 'A tortoise?' I said.
'I heard,' said Mrs Orion, drawing me closer to her and whispering in a conspiratorial tone, 'of a pigman who lived in Henfield, just north of Brighton, back in the Victorian days. He kept a pig in his barn, didn't kill it. When he died, his son took on the responsibility – it was in the old man's will, you see. And then the son of the pigman's son took it on, and so on. They say that the pig still lives, and that it is the size of an elephant now.' I shook my head. 'I think you are piddled,' I said. 'I think so, too. Is there any more champagne?' 'There certainly is.'
I refilled Mrs Orion's cup and her free hand leaned upon my shoulder as I did so. She smelled very nice, did Mrs Orion, and her freedom-loving bosoms pressed against my chest. 'Come,' called the voice of Mr Rune. 'Rizla, come.'
Mrs Orion fluttered her eyelids at me. 'I think you might have been about to,' she whispered.
I reluctantly gathered up the Fortnum's hamper and grudgingly withdrew from the kitchenette.
'I think I should further question that woman,' I told Mr Rune as we stood together in the hall.
'Have you forgotten so soon the matter of her husband's fowling piece?'
'Perhaps we should go, then. Have you learned all that you wish to learn? As it were.'
'It is a case that falls into the inexplicable-conundrum category.'
'It is a lost – or stolen – dog. Hardly anything to get excited about, surely?'
Mr Rune brought his stout stick down hard on to the hall floor. 'Farewell to you, Mrs Orion,' he called. A hiccough was returned to him from the kitchenette. I sighed and said farewell to Mrs Orion also. And Mr Rune and I took our leave. The sun shone as cheerfully as ever. Birdies twittered in treetops, a ginger torn sleeping upon a windowsill dreamed of Theda Bara, and as the cabbie had yet to awaken from the blow Mr Rune had dealt him earlier, the Mumbo Gumshoe suggested that I shift his unconscious body into the passenger seat and place myself at the steering wheel of the taxicab.
'Drive us home, Rizla,' said Mr Rune, settling himself in the back. 'I shall take a nap. Awaken me when we're there.'
'I do not know how to drive,' I said. 'At least, I do not think that I do.' 'Then now would be a good time to learn.' 'In a stolen car?'
'You are a teenager, aren't you? That's the way most teenagers learn to drive.' 'I am quite sure it is not.' 'Details, details. Apply yourself, lad.'
I shook my head, turned the key in the ignition and pressed my foot to various pedals until I received a noisy response. The taxicab, however, did not move.
'I think you'll find there's a handbrake involved, and also a gear lever,' said Mr Rune, drowsily. 'Do you know how to drive, then?'
'Certainly not. There are two kinds of person in this world: those who drive and those who are driven by them. I am, needless to say, one of the latter.'
I released the handbrake, stamped my feet on to various pedals and pushed the gear lever forward. And then we were off.
I really cannot see what all the fuss is about driving – why you need to take a test and get a licence and suchlike. I soon mastered the basics of the procedure. I scraped along a few parked cars and I did run over something that I suspect was a cat – it was certainly not a Spanikov, given its diminutive proportions. I suppose it might have been a hedgehog. And I eventually discovered the brake. In the nick of time, some might say, in particular the woman in the Morris Minor who screamed at me that I was on her side of the road when I discovered it. Then I ran the taxicab into the dustbins at the rear of forty-nine Grand Parade, which I will swear to this very day jumped out in my path. This collision awakened the cabbie.
I awakened Mr Rune and we quickly took our leave of the taxicab. 'You were evidently born to drive,' remarked Mr Rune when we were once more safely ensconced within his rooms. 'I will hire a car for you to chauffeur. It will expedite matters regarding our travel. And spare my shoe leather.'
'Make it a Rolls-Royce, then,' I said, as I had indeed quite taken to the driving.
'Flashy,' said Mr Rune. 'A Bentley, perhaps. I shall look into the matter. But first this case.' 'Lost dog,' I said. 'Hardly worth the bother, surely.'
'The dog is merely the tip of the iceberg.' Mr Rune sought Scotch. 'Are we out of whisky?' he asked. 'Pop over to the offy and fetch more.' 'I have no money. You have yet to pay me.'
'You have yet to earn your keep. I provide you with free room and board. What ingratitude.'
'Regardless, they will no longer serve me at the local offy,' I said, 'because I do not wear black.'
'Black?' Mr Rune tried in vain to wring Scotch from the empty bottle.
'New management. It is the "Goth Licence" now. You have to wear black to get served.'
'Outrageous,' said Mr Rune. 'And you wasted the last of the Mulholland champagne upon Mrs Orion.' 'I think she fancied me.' 'Let us apply ourselves to the task in hand, to whit-' 'The lost dog.'
'The dog is the tip of the iceberg. The iceberg itself is the Chronovision.'
'This is altogether new,' said I. 'What in the names of the Holies is a Chronovision?'
'It is what I seek, and what I will inevitably find once I have solved the twelve tasks that lie before me.' 'The finding of a lost dog being one of these tasks?'
'I sincerely believe so, yes.' Mr Rune had located a bottle of port and this he uncorked, sniffed at and then decanted with care into a brace of glasses. 'Let me tell you about the Chronovision,' he said as he passed a glass of port to me. 'It is better that you understand the situation now. There will only be confusion later if you do not.'
'I may not be around later,' I said. 'I agreed to stay with you for one month only.'
'You never did read the small print on that contract you signed, did you?' 'Ah,' said I.
'The Chronovision,' said Mr Rune, settling into his great big chair and tasting the port. 'A fascinating contrivance -and one, should it fall into the wrong hands, that would seal the fate of Mankind.'
'Ah,' said I once more. 'We are back on that subject again, are we?' 'It is the subject that consumes me. It is what I am.' 'Go on about this Chronovision, then. What does it do?'
'Quite simply,' said Mr Rune, 'although there is nothing simple about it, it is, in effect, a television set upon which one can view events that happened in the past.' I laughed heartily at this.
'It is no laughing matter,' Rune said sternly. 'The man who possesses the Chronovision becomes, through its possession, the most powerful man on Earth.'
'I doubt very much whether such a device exists,' I said. 'It is the stuff of science fiction, like The Time Machine.'
'Mister Wells's Time Machine functioned well enough. And I should know – I helped him to construct it.'
'The last time you made a remark such as that, I told you that I was leaving,' I said. 'Would you care to hear me tell you this once more?'
'Allow me to explain.' Mr Rune raised his stout stick and I, out of politeness, allowed him to continue.
'The inventor of the Chronovision was Father Pellegrino Maria Ernetti,' said Mr Rune. 'He was a Benedictine monk, an expert in archaic Latin texts and Gregorian chants. A scant decade ago, he was working in the experimental physics laboratory at the Catholic University of Milan. You would be surprised if I told you about some of the experimentation that goes on there. Well, Father Ernetti was filtering harmonics out of certain Gregorian chants he had recorded when he heard the voice of his deceased father. He had somehow tuned to the frequency of the past. A great deal of further experimentation led him to the creation of the Chronovision, a device that, as I have said, resembles a television set, but upon which it is possible not only to hear events that occurred in the past, but witness them also. There is no mumbo-jumbo involved in this – it is science, it is physics.' 'It is c*bblers,' I remarked.
But Mr Rune continued, unperturbed. 'Father Ernetti demonstrated the Chronovision before Pope Pious the Twelfth. This is a fact; it is recorded in Vatican records. The Chronovision was tuned to the correct frequency and the Pope viewed the crucifixion of Christ upon the Chronovision's screen. He was amazed. But he soon became horrified.'
'I would have thought that he would have been chuffed,' I said, 'to know for certain that there had been a Jesus Christ, I mean. Not that I think I really believe in-'
'Silence,' said Mr Rune. 'The Pope was filled with horror because he understood the Chronovision's potential – what would happen should it fall into the wrong hands.'
'So what would happen? Surely if this were true, it would be the greatest scientific discovery of this or any other age. A Nobel Prize-winner for the scientific monk. To actually view the past, to see the events of history – every home should have a Chronovision, surely.'
'Absolutely not! The Pope understood the ramifications. Father Ernetti had tuned the Chronovision to the resonant frequency of the Pope; as a result of the succession of Popes, their lineage goes right back to Saint Peter, who walked with Christ, and who was present at the crucifixion. The image upon the screen was the one seen through the eyes of Saint Peter.' 'Yes,' I said, 'but I still do not see the problem.'
'The Chronovision can be tuned to anyone's personal frequency. We each have a unique resonance. If it was turned to your frequency, it could replay events that you witnessed and took part in three weeks ago.' 'Brilliant,' said I. 'Then I would know who I am.'
'Not brilliant,' said Mr Rune. 'If you can tune the frequency to the resonance of any individual on the planet, then you can see that person's past. That person can have no secrets from the man who tunes the Chronovision. Do you understand now?'
'Ah,' I said. 'You mean that should some dictator gain possession of it, he could uncover everything about the past of any individual on Earth. Any individual – is that correct?'
Mr Rune nodded. 'The Pope understood this and the terrible implications of it. He ordered the Chronovision dismantled, packed into boxes and placed under lock and key in the vaults of the Vatican, alongside the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail.'
'Easy now,' I said. 'But if this is all really true – and I do agree that there is something about it that almost has me believing you – then the Chronovision is safely stashed away and that is that.'
'Would that it were so.' Mr Rune tasted further port and shook his great head sadly.
'It was stolen,' said I, 'from the Vatican vaults – that is it, is it not?'
Mr Rune nodded grimly. 'More than a year ago. It would never have come to my attention – indeed, the Chronovision's existence would never have come to my attention – had not the Pope and I been out on the razz and he, having imbibed too freely as is his habit, spilled the entire business out to me.' ' You know the Pope?' I said. 'We are the greatest of friends.' 'This is ludicrous.' 'What? Do you think that the Pope has no friends?' 'I am not saying that, but I find it difficult to believe that you are one of them.' 'And why might this be?' I stared at Mr Rune.
And do you know what? For the very life of me, I could not think of a single reason as to why it might not be. 'You are a chum of the Pope's?' I said.
'Probably his bestest friend. It was me who suggested that he join the priesthood. He wanted to become a professional football player, but between the two of us, he had a weak left foot.'
I shook my head. 'So, hold on,' I said, 'are you presently being employed by the Pope to retrieve the Chronovision from whoever stole it?'
'Absolutely not. He did not recall in the morning that he'd told me anything about it. When I have located the Chronovision, I will destroy it. And then my work will be done.'
'Incredible,' I said. 'Ludicrous, but also incredible. But I fail to understand how finding a lost dog is going to help this noble cause of yours.'
'The dog is the tip of the iceberg, as I have told you, several times.' 'You told me, but I still fail to understand.'
'That map there, on the wall.' Mr Rune pointed. 'I have seen you peering at it many times. Have you fathomed it yet?'
'No,' I said. 'I have not. It appears to be a large-scale map of Brighton, but it has all kinds of figures drawn all over it, following the patterns made by the roads. A bat, a cat, a horse -I think.'
'And the head of a dog,' said Mr Rune, 'in the Hangleton area of Brighton. You will observe that the house we visited was in Tudor Close, in the very eye of the hound.' 'Oh,' I said. 'And that is significant, is it?'
'Most,' said Mr Rune. 'Entirely. This map is the means by which I will discover the Chronovision's location and achieve my goal – its recovery and destruction. If the Chronovision is the single most significant discovery of this century, then what is drawn upon that map must rank as number two.' 'So what is it?' I asked.
'It is my discovery, young Rizla. The figures you see traced on to that map are the Carriageway Constellations, the work of a Victorian magician who influenced the Brighton Borough Town-Planning Committee to lay out the roads and byways of Brighton to a particular pattern, one that would later be discovered by myself. There are twelve figures, you see. Each represents a case or conundrum that we together must solve in order to acquire the Chronovision. What you see before you on that map, young Rizla, is the Brighton Zodiac.' Mr Rune paused, awaiting applause. I raised my glass and said, 'Can I have another drink?'