The Brightonomicon Read online

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ I said.

  ‘Is that compulsory?’

  ‘No, it is just a turn of phrase.’

  Fangio served up our drinks and repaired to the wine cellar, smiling as he went.

  ‘What was he frowning about?’ asked Hubert.

  ‘Never mind,’ I told him. ‘Drink up and enjoy the moment.’

  The moment passed.

  And so did further moments.

  These further moments passed to the accompaniment of drinking.

  These moments became minutes and these, in turn, became hours.

  ‘I’m really rather drunk now,’ said Hubert. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I am very drunk,’ I said. ‘But happy.’

  ‘That’s often the way with drinking.’ Hubert slid his beer glass up and down the counter, thereby bringing grief to Fangio who was a barlord who liked his counter clean. For health-and-safety reasons, obviously. ‘If I tell you a secret,’ said Hubert, ‘will you promise to keep it a secret?’

  ‘Will it still be a secret if you tell it to me?’ I asked.

  Hubert scratched at his head, raising small clouds of purple dust.

  ‘Don’t confuse him,’ said Fangio. ‘I like secrets.’

  ‘This is a really scary one,’ said Hubert, ‘and all the more so because it is true.’*

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘I promise that whatever you tell me, I will not confide the details to another soul.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Fangio. ‘Unless the mood takes me, of course.’

  ‘Right, then,’ said Hubert. And he drew us closer to him. ‘It’s about rock stars and why they always die aged twenty-seven.’

  ‘Do they?’ asked Fangio.

  ‘They do,’ said Hubert. ‘Johnny Kidd, out of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, died aged twenty-seven. Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Gram Parsons from the Byrds, Pigpen out of the Grateful Dead. And Kurt Cobain, who hasn’t been born yet, so we’ll leave him out.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Jones and Jimi, Janis and Jim, and Johnny, of course – they all died at twenty-seven?† Is this true?’

  Fangio was counting on his fingers. ‘It is,’ he said. ‘How odd.’

  ‘Not odd,’ said Hubert. ‘Just the work of the Devil.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong,’ said Fangio. ‘I know that they call rock ’n’ roll the Devil’s music, but—’

  ‘Listen,’ said Hubert, ‘I checked it out. I wanted to see where it all began, where it could be traced back to. And I have—’

  ‘Go on,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Let me say something,’ I said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’ said Fangio.

  ‘That is all I wanted to say.’

  ‘Robert Johnson,’ said Hubert, ‘blues musician – ever heard of him?’

  ‘Actually, I have,’ I said. ‘He wrote “Cross Road Blues” and “Me and the Devil Blues” and “Hell Hound On My Trail” and “Love In Vain” – the Rolling Stones recorded that one. Just about every rock musician today pays homage to Robert Johnson. They say that he started the whole thing, put it all together – the notes, the chord progressions, the lot.’

  Hubert nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right. So let me tell you this. The story goes that Robert Johnson wasn’t much of a guitarist, but he wanted to be the best, to be remembered. So he went down to the crossroads at midnight with a black-cat bone and sold his soul to the Devil. The Devil tuned Robert Johnson’s guitar—’

  ‘I remember reading this somewhere,’ I said. ‘From then on he always played with his back to the audience. Folk who looked at him from the stage side of the curtain swear that he had six fingers on his left hand.’

  Hubert nodded. ‘When Keith Richards first heard Robert Johnson’s recordings – and he only recorded twenty-nine songs, all in a hotel room, with his back to the recorder – Keith Richards said, “Who’s the other guitarist playing with Johnson?” because one man alone simply couldn’t play all those notes at the same time.’

  ‘Spooky stuff,’ said Fangio.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Go on,’ said Fangio.

  ‘I was going to say that,’ I said.

  ‘Robert Johnson met with an untimely death,’ said Hubert. ‘Murdered by a jealous husband, they say. Or perhaps the Devil claimed his own. Perhaps he always claims his own.’

  ‘How old was Robert Johnson when he died?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-seven,’ said Hubert.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Thank God for what?’ I said.

  ‘Thank God it’s five o’clock,’ said Fangio. ‘I can take off this muff-diver’s helmet now.’

  ‘And I have to get off,’ said Hubert. ‘I have this enormous Russian spaniel outside in my van that has to be delivered to Mister Rune.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘the Russian spaniel. I am really going to enjoy the Russian spaniel.’

  ‘That’s Thursdays,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Thursdays?’ I said.

  ‘Bestiality Theme Night.’

  ‘We are off,’ I said to Fangio. ‘I doubt whether our paths will cross again. It has been a pleasure to know you.’

  ‘Don’t forget to mention me in Chapter Nine,’ said the barlord. ‘And don’t forget your pillowcase.’

  I did not forget my pillowcase. I followed Hubert around to the rear of forty-nine Grand Parade, where he had parked his van. And here I maintained something of a low profile, for there were several parked police cars to be seen and a lot of that yellow ‘POLICE – DO NOT CROSS’ tape draped all around a taxicab that had apparently crashed into the dustbins.

  ‘Wait here and I’ll get the dog,’ said Hubert.

  And he did so.

  It really was a very large dog, for a spaniel.

  ‘It’s grown a bit since I put it in the van,’ said Hubert, struggling to drag it along. ‘It’s almost the size of a Shetland pony now. I wonder how big these things grow. I heard this story about a pig in Henfield once. It seems that—’

  ‘Follow me,’ I said, and I grinned as I said it.

  I turned the handle and then kicked open the door. Mr Rune looked up from his doings, which were playing ‘Love in Vain’ upon his reinvented ocarina.

  ‘My dear Rizla,’ he said, ‘you have returned.’ And he took out his gold pocket watch. ‘And right on time to the very minute, as I predicted.’

  ‘You charlatan!’ I cried. ‘I have found you out.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Mr Rune. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘I have the Hound of the Hangletons with me.’

  ‘Then the case is solved, as I also predicted.’

  ‘There never was a case. This fellow here—’ I encouraged Hubert into the room. ‘This fellow here—’ Hubert struggled to ease himself past the Russian spaniel ‘—stole the dog at your behest. You scoundrel. You fraud.’

  ‘Scoundrel and fraud,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Harsh words.’

  ‘And too good for you.’

  ‘You’re piddled again,’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘and proud of the fact, for I have done it at your expense.’

  ‘I knew that Fangio would sell my signed first edition,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I trust that you enjoyed the champagne that I had him lay down for a special occasion.’

  ‘Actually, I did. He shared it with me.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You can return the hound now, Hubert. Oh – and take this.’ Mr Rune rose and handed Hubert an envelope.

  ‘What is that?’ I asked.

  ‘My bill,’ said Mr Rune, ‘for the Orions, for the recovery of their dog. Make sure you get the money in cash, Hubert; don’t accept a cheque.’

  ‘But you had Hubert steal the dog in the first place,’ I said.

  ‘I was not employed by the Orions to catch the thief, only to recover the dog for them. That has been done, and I am the
refore entitled to my fee. I see no flaw in this reasoning, do you?’

  ‘I …’ I said. ‘I …’

  ‘And you have returned, as I predicted, within three hours to the very minute. And so you must honour the oath you swore upon leaving, that should you return to these rooms you would remain in my employ until all the cases are solved. You promised on your life, did you not?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘But me no buts,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Everything has gone exactly as I planned it. Let us now go together to The Pillow Biter’s Elbow, as I believe it to be called at this time of the day, and celebrate our success: a found hound, a fat fee and a partnership that will lead one day to you making a fortune when you publish the book of our exploits. I’d end this chapter here, if I were you.’

  And so I did.

  2

  The Curious Case of the Centenary Centaur

  The Centenary Centaur

  PART I

  ‘I think that you might find this of interest,’ said Mr Rune to me, as we sat a-breakfasting in our rooms at forty-nine Grand Parade upon a fine morning in April. ‘Give me your considered opinion.’ And he flung the morning’s edition of the Argus in my direction.

  My hands being occupied with cutlery, the newspaper fell into my breakfast, mashing the fried egg that I had been saving for last.

  ‘Damn and blast it,’ said I, putting down my knife and fork and plucking up the eggy newssheet.

  ‘Front page,’ said Mr Rune, availing himself of the last piece of toast.

  I took the Argus and viewed the front page, and at once saw the headline printed there: HORRIBLE INCIDENT IN HANGLETON. And what was printed below this?

  Police were called last night to a house in Tudor Close, Hangleton, when concerned neighbours gave the alarm. They had heard dogs howling repeatedly and although having knocked upon the front door, they had been unable to elicit any response from the tenants who were presently renting the property, a Mr and Mrs Orion. Fearing foul play, the officers of the law, once summoned, gained entry to the property by applying reasonable force to the front door with their helmets. They were ill prepared for the scene of horror that waited them. The house was literally alive with spaniels.

  Constable Runstable, who was one of the first on the scene, told our reporter, ‘There were literally thousands of them, ranging from the size of a Shetland pony to that of a bluebottle. All identical – but for the size, of course.’

  No trace whatsoever was found of the tenants. The police wish to contact Mr and Mrs Orion as soon as possible to help with their enquiries. The spaniels are being held in police custody.

  ‘“From the size of a Shetland pony to that of a bluebottle”?’ I quoted. ‘Whatever is that all about?’

  ‘I should have thought that to be perfectly obvious.’ Mr Rune dipped the last bit of toast into my wounded egg. ‘It was a Russian spaniel, after all.’

  ‘You have lost me,’ I said. ‘And leave my egg alone.’

  ‘The spaniel reached critical mass,’ said Rune. ‘Surely you’ve seen those sets of Russian dolls that fit inside each other? Such it is with Russian spaniels – a great big spaniel, with a lesser-sized spaniel within it and so on and so forth.’

  ‘Ludicrous,’ I said, drawing my breakfast plate beyond Mr Rune’s reach and beating back his hand with the morning’s Argus. ‘And I suppose these spaniels get smaller and smaller for ever and ever.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You can’t divide things in half for ever.’

  ‘Oh, I beg to differ there,’ I said. ‘Space is infinite; you can always multiply a distance by two and never come to the end of it. It therefore follows that you can similarly divide something in half for ever and ever and ever.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Mr Rune, ‘because your diminishing object will eventually become so small that it will weigh less than the light which falls upon it, and then cease to exist in this dimension.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, I never knew that.’

  ‘Nor did Einstein until I put him straight on the matter.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘It means, young Rizla, that you should not take anything for granted. I am Rune, the physical manifestation of all astral possibilities. I knew from the first that we were dealing with no ordinary spaniel.’

  ‘But you stole the spaniel!’

  ‘Had it stolen. One does not own a dog and bark oneself. It is well to know your enemy, to gauge his strengths and weaknesses.’

  ‘The spaniel was your enemy?’

  ‘Not the spaniel. Tell me, Rizla, when we were there in that house at Hangleton, what observations did you make? Do you recall that I asked you to keep your eyes and ears open?’

  ‘I do,’ I said, as I helped myself to the very last pouring of coffee, ‘and I made quite a few observations, as it happens. For one thing, those two were not married.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Mr Rune. ‘And how did you reach this conclusion?’

  ‘“Mrs Orion” was not wearing a wedding ring, and she was a very fastidious woman, very clean, her nails beautifully manicured. And he was a right scruff, all over shabby with nasty black fingernails. I do not think a woman like that would ever marry a man like that. And he called her Janet, not Aimee, as was written in the letter you received.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I do not think there were any other dogs there,’ I said.

  ‘Then how do you explain the continued howling that came from the rear of the house?’

  ‘It was a tape recording, a loop tape – you could hear the pattern of the howling as it repeated itself.’

  ‘I am very impressed,’ said Mr Rune. ‘However, I would have been more impressed if you’d mentioned these details to me at the time.’

  ‘I drove back here in a stolen cab and then you gave me all that toot about Chronovisions and zodiacs.’

  ‘Well, nevertheless I am impressed. You are wrong on almost every count, but nevertheless.’

  I topped my coffee up with the last of the milk and sugar. ‘So how am I wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘The couple are indeed married. They were married in Saint Petersburg in nineteen ten.’

  ‘Saint Petersburg?’ I said. ‘Nineteen ten?’ I said. ‘What are you saying?’ I said. ‘That Mister Orion really is Rasputin?’

  I said.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Mister Orion is in fact none other than my arch enemy, The Most Evil Man Who Ever Lived. Mister Orion is Count Otto Black.’

  ‘Then him shooting at us was no accident.’

  ‘He is a crack shot – he trained with the Eton Rifles. (Eton Rifles).* Had he wished to shoot us dead, then he would have done so.’

  ‘But if he is your arch enemy—’

  ‘He was testing me out. He is unaware that I am aware of his true identity. It was a pleasure to take his money – a share of which I passed on to you at the time.’

  ‘An insubstantial amount,’ I said. ‘But I still do not understand about all these spaniels being inside one another.’

  ‘All will be explained in good time. Oh, and by the way, Rizla, the name “Orion” was something of a giveaway. It’s a stellar constellation that includes Sirius, the Dog Star. But anyhow, that isn’t the piece in the Argus that I wanted you to read. Read what is written beneath the Hangleton article.’

  I took up the newspaper once more and studied the front page. ‘There is nothing else,’ I said, ‘apart from an advertisement.’

  ‘Read the advertisement aloud.’

  And so I did.

  THE CENTAUR OF THE UNIVERSE

  A talk upon the Elliptical Navigations of the

  Aethyrs of Avatism by World-Famous Paranormal

  Questor and Psychic Youth

  DANBURY COLLINS

  Tonight 7.30 p.m. The Rampant Squire,

  Ditchling Road, Brighton

  ‘Nutcase,’ I remarked. ‘New-Age nutcase.�
��

  ‘What?’ Mr Rune feigned outrage. ‘Danbury Collins, renowned psychic youth and masturbator?’

  ‘What?’ I feigned a little outrage of my own.

  ‘He is most entertaining. He, Sir John Rimmer and Doctor Harney have conducted numerous investigations into the paranormal – with little success, I hasten to add – but his talks are always a riot. I have crossed intellectual swords with this fellow on numerous occasions. My sword, however, has a rapier’s edge. His, alas, would not pass through butter.’

  ‘Speaking of butter,’ I said, ‘we have no more.’

  ‘Then it is time for you to do the Tesco run.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I shook my head fiercely. ‘Tesco does not give credit and I am not running out of there again without paying whilst you remonstrate with the checkout girl. Why do you not simply pay for something once in a while?’

  Mr Rune now shook his head. ‘I am Rune,’ said he. ‘I offer the world my genius. All I expect in return is that the world cover my expenses.’

  ‘So would you care for me to see if I can somehow scrounge some free tickets for Mister Collins’s lecture?’

  ‘Unnecessary,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I doubt very much that he will be playing to a packed house. We’ll inveigle our way in when we get there. But for now—’ Mr Rune dabbed his napkin to his lips, ‘—let us take a stroll to Sainsbury’s.’

  *

  We did not stroll back from Sainsbury’s. Well, I believe that Mr Rune might well have done, but I was forced to run and this was not easy, considering the number of carrier bags making red rings upon my fingers. We lunched well, though, and suppered, too, and then at six of the evening clock took to the street and waved a taxi down.

  The taxi driver’s name was Dave, a truculent fellow who supported the Brighton Seagulls ‘come rain or shine, through thick and thin and all the way to Hell and back’. And he enlivened our journey with talk of his theories that the planet Earth was in fact a great big head, swinging through space and gaining increased sentience due to human beings, which were in fact its brain cells, exchanging information.