No, not that sort. Don’t get all excited. Just read on.
[Editor’s note: No Ecuadorian Brass-Kneed Swimming Spiders were harmed during the filming of this episode. Mr Whybrow and I nearly bought our ticket, and my nerves were ruined, but who cares about that? VB]
Mr Whybrow asked no further questions about my delivery and wisely refrained from mentioning my costume error, although I still wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong; I’d only done what he’d been expecting me to. It was the next day when my misunderstanding was confirmed, and I learned the difference between a naturalist and what I’d thought Mr Whybrow had meant.
I hadn’t mentioned that horrible great spider to him, either. It had to be a Bughunter family possession; I’d been in Caledon long enough to know that had it been native to the land, I’d have at least heard of it by now. Thus it remained a secret burning a big hole in my sanity.
I don’t know whether to count myself lucky that Mr Whybrow happened to have just arrived in to the shop, newspaper tucked under his arm, when Mrs Boltclyster came in with a telegram scant seconds later. Mr Whybrow opened the envelope, scanned the single sheet once, and turned to me with a frown.
“Does this mean anything to you, Miss Bluebird?”
He held out the telegram for me. “PLEASE CHECK AIRSHIP STOP INFORM IF UNUSUAL CREATURE FOUND STOP REPLY PAID STOP BUGHUNTER STOP.”
I managed to transmute my revulsion into some sort of puzzlement. “No, sir. I can’t say that it does.” That wasn’t entirely untrue, since apart from a naked shopgirl, my airship had contained nothing unusual when I’d landed. The suspicious look that Mr Whybrow gave me suggested that he didn’t believe me, although he said nothing.
Mrs Boltclyster had been standing by on tenterhooks; she of course knew the telegram’s contents and was hoping to hear an answer to the enigma that was no doubt plaguing her, as well. Now she was to be disappointed.
Mr Whybrow told her, “Please send the reply, ‘NONE FOUND.’”
“I wonder what that could be about, then?” mumbled Mrs Boltclyster in a final futile hint, as she departed to conclude her commission.
“I’m wondering the same thing,” said Mr Whybrow when we were alone once more.
I rallied myself. “The
Silk Sonata isn’t very big, sir. Don’t you think I’d have noticed, if an unusual creature had been on board?”
Snort from Jeweller. “Not necessarily. Some unusual creatures are small enough to evade casual observation. And there again, some are not.” With a triumphant flourish, he held out the newspaper for me to read. And here, I knew there would be no getting out of it. The headline wasn’t just a broadcast, it was an accusation.
“BARBARIAN!
“Unknown assailant in airship drops society prima donna into river”
And there it all was. A four-column tirade from Miss Moltovoglio which was one-third lurid narrative, one-third dramatic declamation, one-third invective and unasked-for opinion, and three-thirds self-advertisement. They’d even included a photograph of her which I don’t think anybody would call flattering. Fortunately, beyond her detailed technical description of my airship as “A big pink one,” there was absolutely nothing to link her attacker with me.
I speed-read to the end of the page, where I learned that subsequent to her exit from the soiree, Miss Moltovoglio had been arrested for indecent exposure, and the judge had made her present her fundament in court to let the witnesses identify her. She had been fined ten guineas for her offence, and a further ten for having “an arse like – “ The rest was over the page, and I never got to discover what the judge thought it looked like, as Mr Whybrow was holding out an impatient hand for the newspaper.
“Oh dear, how awful for her,” I murmured, totally unconvincingly. I was, however, hoping that I wasn’t betraying my amusement that she’d undone her self-proclaiming posturing with her increasingly frequent lapses into the language of the Dog and Duck, Southwark.
“She says she’s brought the Home Secretary into the matter. A close personal friend, apparently.” Mr Whybrow snorted, to let me know how likely that was to be true.
“She would say that, sir.” I knew I could count on Mr Whybrow to display a complete lack of sympathy towards her.
Actually, he sounded quite weary of having to share a planet with her. “Quite. If he really does know her, then he’s probably as sick of her as everyone else is.” He gave me a wink. “Well done, Miss Bluebird.”
With that, it was back to work as normal. I found it hard to concentrate on anything; that damned spider had turned an embarrassment that I’d almost enjoyed into a nightmare. Even my double triumph over Misses Moltovoglio and Transom felt soured.
I was in for further surprises, however. Starting a couple of hours later, with the arrival of Dr Bughunter. In person. His merry countenance was darkened by something on his mind, I thought, and whatever it was had something to do with the poster under his arm.
“Good day, Miss. So here you are in your own natural environment.” Inwardly, I cringed at his gratuitous adjective as he looked about the shop, apparently sniffing for a gas leak. “Is the master in?”
“Yes, sir. He was most curious about your telegram. I’ll ask if he can come down.”
The words, “DR BUGHUNTER IN SHOP” produced results that were as immediate as were possible, given the distance to his workshop. Mr Whybrow entered in much the same way as the proverbial loose cannon crashing through the side of a ship.
“Dr Bughunter! Pleasure to meet you, sir. I presume you’ve called in connection with your telegram?”
“I have. Are you
quite sure there was nothing unusual in that airship when you landed?”
Mr Whybrow redirected his query to me with a frown.
“What is it you’re looking for, sir?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
“This.” Dr Bughunter unrolled his poster. “Would you mind putting it up for me, somewhere prominent?”
Mr Whybrow and I took in the sternly glaring text, highlighted by a picture of my unwelcome passenger.
“WANTED”
“£1,000 REWARD FOR CAPTURE”
“DEAD OR ALIVE”
And below the picture, less lurid but more informative………..
“Ecuadorian Brass-Kneed Swimming Spider”
“Answers to name of ‘Cuddles.’”
“If seen, do not approach.”
“Apply c/o L Bughunter (Miss)”
As the news sank in, Dr Bughunter explained, “I’d taken the little fellow to show my daughter and he’s escaped.”
Mr Whybrow rubbed his chin. “How big is this little fellow?”
“Oh, about the size of a dinner plate. A little larger than the Brazilian Wandering Spider.”
There, I felt that Dr Bughunter was understating the size of the item, although I kept my silence.
Mr Whybrow’s eyes were, predictably, attracted to the reward. “Is it valuable, then?”
“Unique in this country,” Dr Bughunter announced. “I haven’t even shown it to the Royal Society yet. I spent five years looking for it, and I brought it back to show them.” His voice rose; I suspected that he did not often get an audience to himself and intended to use it to its fullest potential. His eyes widened, his hair tossed about as he expounded on the obsession that had driven him to the edge of his wits. “They didn’t believe it even existed! Said it was a native fable! But I proved them wrong. Unfortunately, only my wife, my daughter and myself have ever seen it. The expedition cost me twenty thousand pounds! That creature earned me the Chairmanship of the Society; it would have made my reputation across two continents. And now it’s gone!” He cadenced his outburst by clapping a hand to his eyes with a theatricality worthy of Shakespeare.
If I’d been in any doubt before, I could now be quite certain that my panic had proved costly to science, and that unless I wanted my reputation to plummet alongside the Doctor’s, I’d do well to keep Cuddles’ fate to myself.
But then, I also had a right to my own life, which I suspected had almost been riven from me. Dr Bughunter’s poster contained a hint which I did not like. “Is it dangerous, sir?”
The Naturalist’s dramatic air switched to one of eccentricity – in fact, there was a rabid cast to his eyes which did not put me at ease as they widened, like a grandfather getting carried away in telling a fireside tale. “Oh, yes! We are the only non-native people to have actually witnessed it strangling a wild pig and eating it. Within half an hour, there was nothing left but bones.”
My heart almost stopped at the fate I’d avoided so narrowly. So my aerobatics had been more than justified. He was actually taking a delight in describing that monster’s ghastly proclivities! I shuddered, believing him to have named it with the usual Caledonian gift for irony. “Cuddles,” indeed.
But Dr Bughunter had not finished. He fixed me with a mirthful leer. “It’s particularly attracted to women. Young women. I believe it’s something in the hormones.”
Now, that did disgust me. I’d never done anything which might produce that sort of moan, and I resented being included in the same category as -
But pride apart, another suspicion started to nag at me. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, isn’t it a little unusual to go to such extreme measures to prove the existence of a spider? Not to mention reckless, given the creature’s lethal attributes and the Society’s customary mode of dress?”
That reined in Dr Bughunter’s exhuberance. He looked puzzled for a moment. Then, somewhere inside his brain pan, a penny dropped and rattled around on its edge for a few moments until it fell still. “Why, not at all. Discovering new creatures is precisely what the Society of Naturalists is there for. As for dress, I was wearing what amounted to a suit of armour. On the other hand,
Naturism, in a place like that, we leave to the native bearers. Which it was how it had already come to eat two of them before I could capture the beastie.”
I could hardly have missed his casually-italicised emphasis, which was privately and quite unmistakeably aimed at me. So I had misunderstood my commission by one crucial syllable. Talking of which, the “Al” standing nearby saw the dawn break on my face and began to study his shoes, to hide the fact that he was biting his lip.
He did not keep me squirming for long. “It obviously wasn’t in Miss Bluebird’s airship; she’d certainly have noticed a creature that large. Might it not simply have swum off the island?”
Dr Bughunter heaved a sigh. “I’m forced to presume that it must have. I had to chase it across a mile-wide river to capture it in the first place; it could well have reached the mainland, given a favourable tide.”
Or a panicking shopgirl in an airship. I gave a guilty swallow. The fall was unlikely to have killed it; I hoped it had met one of Caledon’s bigger underwater predators – preferably something too big for it to strangle - and lost the ensuing argument.
Dr Bughunter might have missed my swallow, but Mr Whybrow didn’t. But neither did he disgrace me by saying anything. “Then how would one go about catching one of these, were one to see it?”
Throwing his head back, Dr Bughunter startled me with a booming laugh better suited to Santa. “Unless you really need it alive – with a lot of bait, and a big big gun. The bigger the better.” Then he sobered, discreetly brushing away his outburst with a wink to Mr Whybrow. “By the way, sir, I must congratulate you on having a most conscientious shopgirl. She would appear to have dressings fit for every season; winter spring and summer. We were most fortunate to see her as beauty’s self. And now I must bid you both good day. And don’t take any unnecessary risks. We wouldn’t want you to lose such a priceless asset as your Miss Bluebird.”
I knew the verse to which he was alluding. It concluded,
“But beauty’s self is she when all her clothes are gone.”
Mr Whybrow acknowledged him with a bow, and bit his lip again. I vowed that his next mug of coffee would be arriving via the Lamson.
He waited until we were alone before murmuring, “What I wouldn’t have given to have been there.”
“Then you’d have had no need for me to deliver it, sir,” I retorted.
“Well, you won’t need to go back there at any time, unless they place another order. Or unless you get to return his spider.”
I suppressed another shudder, and then bit my own lip in shame. He could have given me away about Cuddles, but had not. He raised my chin with a crooked finger, all mischief gone from his face.
“I think I can guess what happened. That was no run-of-the-mill delivery, was it?”
The full horror of what had climbed up my legs smote me again like a big cold electric shock. It would have been a good time to be offered a hug, but I knew I dared not expect one. I settled for a barely perceptible shake of my head.
“Can I rely on you to place that poster somewhere prominent?”
“Yes, sir,” I croaked. Perhaps it was best to leave it at that, for now.
“Let’s get on with it, then. You have your revolver, don’t you?”
He didn’t turn away quite in time. I saw the slitting of his mouth as he strangled a chuckle.
Indignantly, I drew myself up. “Is something funny, sir?”
“No, no, not at all.” He didn’t even break step as he headed out as quickly as his tact would allow.
I’d swear that man could read my mind like an open book. Left to my own devices, I realised that he’d done all the right things. He’d let me accept my mistakes in my own time, and let me keep my embarrassment over that horrid great spider to myself. And let’s face it, there was a lot of difference between a tropical river and the sea. Our climate was nothing like as hot as South America; the “beastie” probably wouldn’t survive long in the sea. Nevertheless, as I wandered about looking for somewhere to put up the poster, I couldn’t get away from the feeling that Cuddles could be absolutely anywhere.
I paced about the harbour for a bit, and eventually decided that the most prominent place was simply on the front of the shop. Everyone walked past that, even if they didn’t come in. Luckily for my fingertips, the timbers belonged to 1850’s revival and were not genuine Tudor oak, which could resist bullets far less a shopgirl with drawing pins.
I stood back for a moment to make sure I’d got the poster straight. Mm-hm. Not bad. If Mr Whybrow found it slightly out, he’d just straighten it himself. But some of our passers-by, in the same position, would take full advantage of the opportunity to march in and deliver an Admonition, accusing me of delivering the world to damnation with a poster an eighth of an inch out of true.
Then a scream cut through the air like Miss Moltovoglio with her bustle on fire. Of course, in the moment that I seized with shock I knew that it couldn’t be her. But it was still someone terrified out of their wits. It seemed to be coming from the post office, and with Dr Bughunter’s visit a very recent and unpleasant memory, I knew I couldn’t ignore it. So I ran around the corner, to find Mrs Boltclyster apparently smitten with paralysis, gazing at a piece of string dangling from the wall.
“Madam? Is something wrong?” What a stupid question. Mrs Boltclyster had nerves like railway lines. Anything that could make her scream had to be pretty terrifying.
She could not take her eyes from that piece of string. “Someone’s eaten my black pudding! I was only out for five minutes, and there it is gone.”
Don’t you just love these little oxymorons particular to English? “Eaten it, Madam? It looks as if someone just grabbed it and made off with it.”
“No, look closer. You can see the twists of skin on the end, lying on the floor.”
So I could. The thief was not only a voracious eater, but a messy one. And it did seem silly that a thief would linger to eat it when they could have grabbed it and run to eat it in perfect safety elsewhere. But there was more. The Postmistress turned to me in utter disbelief. “I don’t understand it. I locked the place up while I went for some baccy, and just left the window slightly ajar.”
“An urchin, perhaps?” I had my own ideas, but decided to let Mrs Boltclyster see the poster for herself.
“Come orf it, Miss! No urchin fit enough to live and breathe could get through that gap.”
I turned over the possibilities in my mind. While Mrs Boltclyster’s loss wasn’t conclusive, it couldn’t be a coincidence that such an unlikely theft had occurred so soon after Cuddles had gone missing. This needed delicacy. I didn’t want to incriminate myself, and any secret told to Mrs Boltclyster only remained a secret until she next spoke to someone.
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but a gentleman stopped by just now, asking us to put up a poster. It may not have anything to do with this, of course, but – “ I left my sentence unfinished and beckoned her to follow. Leading Mrs Boltclyster around to the poster, I let her take it in with a mouth that grew ever larger and rounder.
“Oo-er! Well I never. This is a rum do, isn’t it? Wot with me black pudding disappearing like that.”
“My thoughts too,” I soberly concurred. “You didn’t actually see anything, did you?”
Mrs Boltclyster gave a shiver at how close she had come to meeting Cuddles. “No, I think I’d remember if I’d seen that thing. But I haven’t. It’s all been dead quiet today. Tell yer what, though. From now on, I’ll be keeping Oscar close to hand.”
“Very wise, Madam.” Even Cuddles couldn’t stand up to Oscar.
I left Mrs Boltclyster to stumble back to the post office. Then, remembering that I’d left my revolver under the counter, I made haste back to my own station.
The shop was tidy, nothing needed dusting or cleaning, so under normal circumstances I’d have settled down to some Ebenezer Prout and the arcana of musical harmony and counterpoint. But I didn’t bother. I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, near-certain as I was that Cuddles was in town. I thought back to what Dr Bughunter had said about hormones. Cuddles had got a long hard sniff at me. Could he have remembered my own distinctive scent, like a bloodhound, and had managed to trace me to SouthEnd?
You’re paranoid, I countered.
If he’d been sitting around your
feet for any length of time, that’d encourage him to stay well away! But I was deluding myself. There was a good chance that Cuddles had circumnavigated half Caledon to turn up on my own doorstep.
I had to satisfy myself. All right, I knew there was little chance of being sure, but I knew that I’d never feel easy until I’d made a perfunctory search of the quayside. So, secreting my revolver in the folds of my dress, I went out under the guise of taking some air, and took some air. On reaching the quayside, I immediately wished I’d stayed inside. I’d never before realised that there were so many places Cuddles could hide.
Then something Mrs Boltclyster had said struck me. It
was dead quiet. Too quiet. The reason was immediately clear. All the seagulls had gone. Now, that just wasn’t natural.
I had a very unpleasant feeling about this. But I didn’t get to dwell on it for long. A heavy industrious-sounding racket came from behind me. It was Mr McKew, trying to get a heavy box through his doorway. I ran over to help.
“Allow me, sir.” I held his door open for him.
“Thanks, Miss. Much appreciated.”
I nodded to his load. “Tinned fish, sir?”
He laughed and set the box down on his counter. “No, Miss. Half a hundredweight of hamburgers.” With his arm out of the way, I was able to see the legend on the side of the carton.
“Half a hundredweight of – “
“Hamburgers, Miss. They’re going down big in the States. It’s a disc of minced beef; you fry them or grill ‘em over a flame, and serve ‘em in a bun so you don’t burn your fingers. You just hold it like an ordinary sandwich.”
I wondered if Mr Whybrow would be amenable to a variation in his diet. “Very imaginative,” I lauded.
Mr McKew nodded. “Quite practical, if someone wants a change from fish. They do these hot dog things, too.” At my frown, he explained, “Same sort of thing but like a sausage in a long thin bun. Not sure how the customers’d take to the name, though. I think I’ll see how one or two others manage before going down that road meself.”
Bidding him good day, I headed back to the shop, glad of something new to distract me from the mystery hovering over the neighbourhood. I found a further distraction waiting for me in the Lamson, in the form of a small box with a note wrapped around it.
“Please deliver to Miss Ledd, Caledon on Sea. Invoice needed, usual terms.”
He hadn’t mentioned the price, but it was a “DEAREST” ring so it was easy to calculate price of basic ring plus (I counted) fourteen extra stones. The invoice took but a minute to type out and print off, using Mr Whybrow’s “lightweight” word processor.
I checked over the
Dreadnought before setting off, now that I had an extra danger to consider. I was glad to be away from the shop for a while; the whole place had a menacing atmosphere about it. As I passed through Caledon on Sea, I remembered the times Mr Whybrow and I had spent there, in particular the joke nudist beach with its nine inches of grass. I remarked that since my expedition to the Bughunters, I felt a lot less self-conscious about shedding my skirts for the bike. It was both enlivening and startling when I considered the changes Caledon had wrought in me. Hitherto, travelling anywhere in less than full dress had been unthinkable. Miss Rain’s maneating plant also came back to mind; I took consolation in fantasising about a meeting between Cuddles and said plant, in which the plant came out the winner.
With the delivery made, I returned to the shop with a much clearer head, thanks to the bracing sea air. I locked up the
Dreadnought and thought I’d pass by the post office, to see if there was any more news about Cuddles. But I never got there. I found Mr McKew standing on his doorstep in an absolute paralysis of dismay. Or shock. Or something.
“Sir? Is something wrong?”
Mr McKew turned to me, his mouth a pit of dispair. “Someone’s scoffed all my hamburgers!”
Mrs Boltclyster’s misadventure rang starkly in my mind. She had obviously not been in communication with Mr McKew. “Eaten?” I asked. “Not just stolen?”
“No, eaten. All fifty-six pounds of them. Look!” He nodded at the box on the counter; it appeared to have been opened by an internal explosion. “I went out for half an hour to pay my potato merchant, and came back to find nothing left but the cans. Look how they’ve been opened!”
I dared to lean closer. The cans appeared to have been opened with a cheap tin opener; one of those awkward levery things that leaves a lethal jagged edge.
Mr McKew tipped his hat back a little. “Strange, that is. You’d think anyone that wanted to swipe half a hundredwieght of hamburgers would take them away and eat them elsewhere, not linger on the premises waiting to get caught.”
The serrations around the tin edges were all evenly-sized but small. These cans had been opened expertly, with something – I hesitated to even think it. Something the size of Cuddles’ mandibles.
“Have you notified the police?” I asked.
“Not yet. But what’d they do? Not a great deal,” he answered himself. “Well, I hope whoever’s taken ‘em gets a good hard bellyache. I certainly wouldn’t recommend eating ‘em raw; the instructions on the cans are most particular about that.”
He obviously hadn’t heard about Cuddles yet. I was on the point of explaining when we were both startled by the loudest, immensest burp I’d ever heard, as if the biggest sink in the world had just shifted a blockage. Mr McKew looked to me, suspecting me to be the culprit, while I wondered if Mr Whybrow had been careless with one of Uncle Arthur’s larger organ stops. But then I realised what it was. It was an Ecuadorian brass-kneed swimming spider, digesting his plunder. And the sound had come from the direction of Mr Whybrow’s ships.
My hesitation had been unwise. Mr McKew muttered, “Sounds like it came from out here somewhere,” and before I could stop him, he ‘d gone outside to investigate.
I scurried after him, hampered by my skirts. “Stop! I know what it is – “
Frustratingly, he was too determined to be stopped. This was a man who’d just discovered where his entire stock of hamburgers had gone. Irritably holding my hem out of the way, I followed him up the gangplank onto Old Stumpy’s deck, where he flung the cabin door open.
“Come on out, you rascal! I know you’re in there!”
Desperately, I clutched at his sleeve. “Leave it alone! Get off the ship, sir; I can explain.”
A fusillade of thumpy clicks came from behind us, like eight big typewriter keys falling back into place. As one, we spun round to find Cuddles squatting on the capstan. And he didn’t look happy to see us. Or maybe he was, and that was his natural expression.
Mr McKew murmured, “What in the name of – “
“It’s an Ecuadorian Brass-Kneed Swimming spider,” I gushed. “I was about to explain – “
“An Ecuadorian WHAT?”
I wasn’t sure that he appreciated the danger we were in. I’d not only seen what Cuddles had done to a case of hamburgers, but had also had the benefit of Dr Bughunter’s advice which I’d yet to pass on. “One of those,” I nodded, beginning to sweat. “Don’t go near it.”
“I don’t intend to!”
Without moving my mouth, I told him, “Very slowly and carefully, move over to the gangplank.”
Mr McKew began a gingerish sidestep in the direction I’d suggested. But Cuddles was ready for it. A flashing blur of spider legs, and there he was, sitting on the gunwale leering back. He’d blocked our only exit, and knew it. Inwardly, I squirmed into knots as he flicked his head between Mr McKew and myself, deciding which of us was to be the starter and which, the main course.
“I don’t like that look on his face,” said Mr McKew. “I hope he isn’t about to give me my burgers back.”
“Worse than that, sir. I think he’s still hungry.”
“The only way out’s over the other side, into the sea. Reckon we could make it before he does?”
“That’s no good. He can swim.”
Cuddles made his mind up. He’d obviously decided that shopgirls were juicier than fishmongers as he set his gaze firmly on me with a sharp flick of his head. I remembered that like a fool, I’d left my revolver in the shop, although it was unlikely I could have drawn and fired it before he’d reacted to the movement with a leap and a fatal sinking of fangs.
Dear God, not like this! I’m too young –
Then came an explosion like the end of the world. The gunwale flew to pieces, and Mr McKew and I were hurled to the deck. Swallowing to clear my ears, I raised myself onto one elbow as slivers of oak rained down. Where the gunwale had been, was a great jagged hole. Of Cuddles himself, there was no sign.
Mr McKew helped me to stand, and shook his head at the carnage. “Gawdstruth!”
And there on the quayside, proudly waiting for us to notice her, was Mrs Boltclyster cradling Oscar in her arms. “Did I get it?” she called.
“There wasn’t much of him you didn’t get.” Mr McKew’s voice shook as he replied. “What was that thing?”
“I was trying to explain, sir,” said I, my patience beginning to expire. “Mrs Boltclyster, I don’t know how to thank you. We owe you our lives.”
“Ah, it was nothing, dearie,” the Postmistress modestly dismissed. “You two look like you could use a stiff drink.”
“I could use something,” Mr McKew agreed.
“Pity about that reward, though. I wouldn’t have minded a farsand pahnds.”
“Farsand Pahnds?” Mr McKew appeared to have forgotten that a minute before, he’d been staring death in the face.
“Mrs Boltclyster, why don’t you show him the poster?” I suggested. “I don’t think he’s had a chance to see it yet. I’d better let Mr Whybrow know what’s happened.”
“Glad to, dearie.”
I scurried back to the shop, elated at the danger that had been swept away with Mrs Boltclyster’s good aim. I’d sooner she’d hit me, than missed Cuddles. I first put the coffee on, in the hope of softening the blow when Mr Whybrow saw what’d happened to his gunwale. I then scribbled a note for the Lamson.
“We got Cuddles. Explain when you’re down here. Coffee’s on.”
While I waited for him, I reflected that Mrs Boltclyster had been right. It was a pity that there was nothing left to enable us to claim the reward, although I was happy to have got away with my life.
The aftershock twitched at me in – ah, other ways. More visceral ways best not described. There was time to visit the convenience before Mr Whybrow arrived; I opened the door and flew back in surprise as Harry raced out as though pursued by all the demons of hell.
So that’s where you’ve been hiding, of late. I wonder what’s scared you?
What a stupid question! All right, I’d naively thought that Mrs Boltclyster’s discharge had unsettled Harry; that thing would scare an elephant. But as I stood in the doorway, I retraced Harry’s flight to the toilet pan and the more obvious answer glared back from its brim. Cuddles was clambering out, one deliberate leg at a time, and boy, did he look angry.
I realised that he must have jumped from the gunwale at the last minute, and swum up the outflow from the harbour. I didn’t hesitate, but fled to the counter area, slamming the office door behind me. Silly cow! I should have shut the toilet door first, although he might have simply climbed back into the toilet bowl and escaped through that same outflow. At least, this way I’d know where he was.
Overcome with awe, I watched through the window as Cuddles marched out of the toilet, flicked an
I’ll-deal-with-you-in-a-minute look to me, and then clambered into Mr Whybrow’s chair. There, before my very eyes, he picked up Mr Whybrow’s mug, tossed the soldering iron over his shoulder, and guzzled the contents in a single thirsty draught, with a deep gurgling like a bucket of water being emptied down a drain.
Cuddles put down the mug, wiped his moustache on a foreleg, and let out a long curling burp of satisfaction. Well! He’d clearly never been brung up proper. Now, Mr Whybrow’s coffee is quite famous for its robustness. A new, terrible resolve appeared in Cuddles’ eyes. Oh, my God; that stuff would give him superpowers!
Although my immediate concern was my own life, I knew that I could not let him escape. I ran to lock the shop door and returned to the counter. When I looked through the window, Cuddles had gone. Then I heard an ominous clunk of latch and saw the office door swing open, apparently by itself.
I looked down and there, like Dickens’ Daniel Quilp with eight legs and a grudge, was Cuddles. Now I knew how Mrs Quilp must have felt when her husband entered a room. This fellow meant business. He stood there, letting me wallow in the full depth of my terror, knowing as we both did that he’d got me trapped. I was backed against the counter, and began to search under the top for my revolver, using feel alone. Cuddles must have worked out that I was doing something which he might not like, as he emitted a snarl like the Alsatian from hell.
All right, a lightning draw and hoping to blow him away with the first shot was out. Taking advantage of my skirts to disguise my limbs, I drew back my legs and, leaning on the counter, pushed myself up until I was sitting on the top. Cuddles’ eyes remained stuck to me like magnets; he knew I was up to something. Again, using my skirts like a matador’s cloak, I flicked my legs up and in a trice, was standing on the counter. Now it all depended on how far he could jump.
It was a silly idea, really; if he was capable of opening a door, then all I’d done was to put off the inevitable. Or, more likely, precipitate it. Cuddles realised that I had overcome my paralysis, so he’d better get it over with before I did something clever and escaped. He reared up on his hind legs, tensing to spring. I could have saved myself from him by singing another top C, but I was not in the airship this time, and would only be exchanging death by spider for death by complete squishing under collapsed shop.
Cuddles drew back. Oh, yes. You could read my mind, couldn’t you, you little blighter? You remember the top C…………
I knew I could try jumping down to the other side of the counter, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off him for a moment. Were I to do so, he’d strike.
Then everything happened at once. The office door crashed open, and Mr Whybrow swept in like an archangel bent on revenge. Cuddles swung around to him, but too late. My jeweller had taken in the situation instantly, and delivered an almighty kick to the spider’s fundament that rocketed it across the shop.
“Ohmygodthank you!”
I flew at Mr Whybrow and clung to him the way I imagined Cuddles would have clung to me. As nobody was about, he did not panic too much; just seized a little as I buried my face in his neck. But I’d forgotten that the danger remained.
“Looks like you hadn’t got him after all,” murmured Mr Whybrow, patting me gently on the back. “Come on, girl; he’s still here somewhere.”
As I clambered down, he gave me a swift kiss on the brow, but I was still too overpsyched to notice. Before retrieving my revolver, I looked under the counter in case Cuddles was hiding there, and then we both searched the counter area. Then we searched around it. Then we searched the rest of the shop.
Nothing. Cuddles had vanished. Mr Whybrow borrowed my revolver and kindly let me remain outside while he searched his office, in case Cuddles had found his way back in there. He looked under the chair, under the desk, behind the stove chimney, but still no Cuddles.
Mr Whybrow emerged, scratching his head as he handed my revolver back. “Damn strange. It’s probably found a way out by now. I might as well head back to the workshop. Just keep this thing handy; if he hasn’t scarpered, he’ll probably make an appearance once it gets quiet again.”
The fact that he was about to abandon me to a shop that might have a Cuddles in it escaped me. I smiled at him, coyly. “I don’t believe I thanked you properly for saving me just now.”
Mr Whybrow smirked. “Actually, you did.”
“I meant
properly.”
I think he knew what I was going to do, and that there would be no escaping it. In fact, I don’t think he even wanted to. He just stood there, knowing what was coming, and let me loop my arms about him. Only when I stretched up to him did he cant his head to meet the kiss I moulded to his lips. I took my time, letting us both share the closeness, the merging. He was careful to meet my pressure with equal counterpush of his own; not the lover’s fervour, rather the certainty of something that belongs. This time, I dared to stroke my fingertips along the back of his neck, and I was delighted to feel his passing to and fro in tiny caresses up and down my spine as reassurance that he was there. Always.
I felt that it was my duty to be the first to pull back, although had he taken me further along that road, I wouldn’t have demurred. Beside the fondness in his eyes, there was also a sparkle of humour. I think he was looking for something pithy to say, but he quickly decided that it was not the time or place for pith. Instead, he flickered a smile.
“You never know; you might be saving my life one day.”
How prophetic his words were, if only he’d known. And it was to be sooner than we’d expected.
“I hope that’ll never be necessary,” I told him. “But if it is – “
“Until then, it’s back to work.” His fingers, still wrapped around my waist, patted me affectionately as he gave a playful little snort.
Any excuse will do, eh? As if we need an excuse any more.
I watched him leave with a pang of regret that neither of us would dare say what was in our minds. Had I been any other woman, I’m sure he wouldn’t have hesitated. But then, I was still his shopgirl, even if I was more than that, and he –
He was still clinging to his resolve not to risk anything that might scare me away. Even if he ought to know better by now.
I locked the office door; if Cuddles was lurking on the other side of it, he was going to stay there. The counter area was much easier to survey, I was pretty certain that I wouldn’t be caught by surprise there. But I still looked under the counter top before taking out my revolver.
Left to my own devices, I couldn’t help wondering how Cuddles had managed to escape with the dexterity of a stage disappearing act. He couldn’t have got past Mr Whybrow, and there were only so many places he could hide. I thanked Mr Whybrow’s innate sense of taste that he hadn’t put in one of those ridiculously overornate ceilings, which would have concealed even a mammoth-sized thing like Cuddles.
Then I heard a little tinny skittering noise, like loose mortar falling down a metal flue, although I knew immediately that mortar had no business being in a metal flue. The stove looked all right, and the nearest chimney was in my house, separated by an alley. But however I analysed the sound, there was no getting away from it. Definitely something hard and not metallic, which didn’t leave many options, and definitely in something hollow which was metallic.
I turned my head even as my ears pinpointed the sound’s direction. The Lamson tube.
How on earth did he manage to get in there?
Quite simply. We’d left no message tube in the chute, which had been standing open. His spider logic had showed him a bolt hole, and up he’d scrambled.
It was as well that the chute was too small to admit my head. Had I been so unwise as to hold a lamp in the tube, the heat might have panicked Cuddles and made him drop straight onto me. Instead, I silently put my ear to the chute. The noise continued at a steady, patient rhythm and I had to admit that I’d been right about his emergency exit, although I wished I’d been wrong.
Then the noise stopped. Was he pausing for breath, or was he planning his next move?
Neither.
The chute exploded in my ear, like one of those new tube trains going by. An invisible hand flung me back, coughing and retching at the dense miasma that smothered me, like a thousand burst drains. Cuddles’ pause in the Lamson had been to brace himself to unleash a fart of elephantine proportions, fuelled by fifty-six pounds of raw hamburger. For a moment, I was on my hands and knees, not caring if Cuddles were to descend on me and chew me to pieces like a liquorice stick as I fought to contain my stomach.
Then my customary shopgirl grace and poise reasserted itself. I wanted to kill the
bastard swine.
Snatching up my revolver, I put my ear back to the tube. Cuddles had resumed his climb, and the sounds were getting fainter. He was going up.
Oh, dear Lord! Mr Whybrow!
When he was working, he didn’t even know I was there even if I was standing right beside him. And if he’d heard what Cuddles had just done, he’d look down the tube, which was the last thing I wanted him to do. And I’d never reach him in time to warn him.
I pondered my next move only for half a very short moment. The danger of doing nothing was greater than the likelihood of Mr Whybrow peering into the Lamson at the crucial moment. Fortunately, Cuddles’ eruption had gone down, rather than up.
Mr Whybrow was probably busy with something in his hands. He’d finish what he was doing before inspecting the Lamson, but there was no time to lose. I slammed down the chute, pressed the “Send” button, and repaid Cuddles for his decorum with compressed air at three hundred pounds to the square inch.
Along with the Lamson’s normal fwoof of air, I discerned that skittering with it – this time sharp and rapid, but curiously random in rhythm.
I paused, mulling over what I’d just done. Even if Cuddles had survived the unexpected lift, he’d be dazed long enough for Mr Whybrow to deal with. And I was certain that my jeweller had something to hand that was at least as convincing as my revolver.
I wondered about giving it two minutes before going up to see for myself. It would take long enough to get up there, and no amount of haste would make any difference now. My heart started to thump. Hard. Was Mr Whybrow all right? Or had Cuddles survived and – that just didn’t bear thinking about.
I was never so glad when Mr Whybrow solved my quandary. The Lamson gave a fwoosh, and a canister appeared. I laughed long and loud at the message contained within. Anyone would think he’d just knocked over an ashtray.
“Please bring up a dustpan and brush. And a bucket.”
Neither had I been so glad to be asked to perform that menial little chore. I’d swear I couldn’t have reached him faster if I’d been fired from a gun. I wanted to leap at him and cling like a magnet, scrunch him tight –
But I didn’t. What I found was a very sombre jeweller standing on the threshold, blocking the doorway with his body. “Thank you, me dear. I think you’d better let me handle this.” Without another word, he took the implements from me and went back inside, closing the door behind him.
I stood listening with my ear to the door. Through the thick oak panels, I made out sweepy and light scrapy noises, overladen with mutterings which he’d no doubt have deemed unsuitable for my ears. It charmed me, the way he sought to protect me from such dangers, when he knew I’d developed a thick hide in the workhouse. Mind, I wouldn’t have expected the most tyrannical overseer to have to face Cuddles.
Mr Whybrow emerged with the demeanour of a man who’d just buried his favourite spaniel. The bucket in his hand had been covered with a cloth. “I really wouldn’t want to make a career of
that,” he muttered.
“But you are all right?” I insisted.
He nodded, searching for the right words while his mind settled. “Come on. Let’s head down. Now I really could use a stiff drink.”
Yes, I expect that on hearing how I’d presented myself to the Bughunters, his first act would have been to lock himself away, pour a quarter pint of brandy, and ponder his reputation going down the plughole, even though his fear had subsequently proved unnecessary.
He waited until we were in the back office, stood the bucket discreetly under his desk and had poured each of us an inch of brandy before asking, “I presume that what the Lamson just did was no accident?”
I did not regret what I’d done. Only that it had become necessary. “No, sir. I heard it in the Lamson, it was obviously heading up, and – “
“It’s all right, you did well. Just be glad you weren’t at the other end of the Lamson at the time.”
My jaw dropped, making a big round O of my mouth. “You weren’t – “
“No. I was just getting on with things when the Lamson exploded with – well, I’m sure you can imagine.”
WARNING
The next image is yucky.
I’d rather not have imagined. I wrinkled my mouth, quite nauseated. Then, his eyes shone with that heartening reassurance I knew so well, and he smiled at me.
“Chin up, girl. You saved my life. You know what I’m like when I’m focussed on a piece. If he’d stuck his head out, he’d have been on me before I knew it.”
What I preferred to imagine was his shock when the Lamson exploded Cuddles. At the very least, I’d expected to be called all the silly buggers under the sun, with a contritely mumbled apology coming later. I hadn’t expected him to be so – well, pleasant about it.
“There’s also the matter of the reward,” he pointed out.
That had clean slipped my mind. “Will they still pay out?”
“They’d damn well better, after what we’ve been through. Besides, the poster clearly says ‘Dead or Alive,’ remember?”
Cuddles was certainly very dead. But I’m not sure his present condition quite fulfilled the spirit of the poster, even if it was within its letter. “But how will you return it to her?”
“We won’t,” Mr Whybrow bluntly told me. “She can damn well come here and collect it herself. And if she doesn’t bring her own bucket, she can reinburse me for this one.”
That was the master I knew. I gave him a happy nod of agreement.
“And just dress normally this time,” he added with a smirk. “By which I mean, normal for the shop.”
“Very good, sir.” My smile sprouted fangs. He wasn’t going to let me forget that for a long time. But he only broadened his grin and left to send a telegram. And, no doubt, to reassure Mrs Boltclyster that the problem was well and truly Dealt With.
Miss Bughunter wasted no time in getting around to the shop. Mr Whybrow and I were ready for her, with our trophy standing proudly on the counter top. He went around to greet her, while I was happy to keep my place behind the counter. The sooner some distance was placed between myself and that bucket, the better.
Cutting his usual courtly bow, Mr Whybrow breezed, “Good day, Miss Bughunter. We were expecting you. Can you please confirm that this is indeed your Ecuadorian Brass-Kneed Swimming Spider?”
He might have been displaying a tray of rings as he lifted the cloth off the bucket. I dared to peep inside and almost lost my day’s food intake over what I saw. And I mean really over, as in inside the bucket. But I don’t think Miss Bughunter would have appreciated that, especially since she too had gone a most unhealthy colour and was swaying a little on her feet.
“Your father did say ‘Dead or alive,’” he pointed out. “I’d say this specimen is ninety per cent complete, wouldn’t you? I think that’s sufficient to satisfy your father and the Society. If I find any more, I’ll forward it to you.”
It seemed like a good time to regain my dignity after looking a complete fool in front of the Bughunters. Eagerly, I leaned forwards and pointed into the bucket. “Yes, I’m sure it won’t take long to put him back together again. Look -–that bit goes there, and don’t worry about all the yucky bits. Just tell your father that we’ve saved him the bother of dissecting it. And at no extra charge,” I added, with a proud beam.
Mr Whybrow bit his lip as Miss Bughunter swallowed her gorge again.
He gave our visitor a gentle nudge. “I presume we can proceed with preparing the invoice?”
Inwardly, I groaned. It’d mean wearing his hundred-and-twenty pound lightweight word processor to type the thing out.
“Uh – yes.” Miss Bughunter could not take her eyes from the bucket as she murmured, “Please send it to my father at the Royal Society. I’ll send an endorsement with the – uh, contents. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some glue and stiff wire.”
“Perhaps a couple of old bent coathangers would suffice?” I suggested as she gingerly hefted the bucket.
Mr Whybrow added, “Please ask your father to make the cheque payable to Miss Valerie Bluebird. We’ll put that on the invoice anyway, just to make sure.”
WHAT!
Miss Bughunter almost dropped the bucket. I’m so glad that she didn’t. “Why – yes, of course; if that’s what you want.”
She could not leave the premises fast enough. I expect the poor young lady was wondering what manner of shopgirl could have disintegrated a monster that could strangle a pig.
I waited until she was out of earshot before hissing, “Sir, what are you thinking of? I can’t accept that.”
Mr Whybrow shrugged and gave me a professorial over-the-spectacles look, even though he wasn’t wearing any. “You caught him. All I did was sweep up the bits. And I won’t accept the credit for something you did.”
Clean out of arguments, I stamped my foot. “Ooh, do you have to be such a gentleman about it?”
He canted his head, studying me while I maintained my pose of righteous indignation, determined not to be the first one to yield.
“Yes,” he said. “Now if you could type up that invoice, please? And don’t forget to add one-and-tuppence for the bucket.”
I could have pressed my point, but that would have made me appear ingracious. It occurred to me that he might be feeling guilty about his windfall from the Widow Beauregard, although there was no reason for him to. That had been all his work, and an honest business transaction at that. This was different. I’d done the deed, and he’d insisted that the money was mine. So why was
I feeling guilty about it?
Force of habit, I suppose.
I had never been so happy to strap that monstrosity to me. It was like writing my own money. But what was I going to do with it?
