Will listened.
“What is that, do you think?”
Will listened some more. “Applause,” said he. “It’s applause.”
“The show is beginning,” said Tim.
And Tim was right.
The show was indeed beginning.
42
Applause.
Tumultuous applause.
The big top was plunged in darkness, but for the starlight that twinkled through the vast glass dome. And then a spotlight pierced the black, striking the centre of the ring, and then a figure stepped into the spotlight, and there was deafening applause to greet Count Otto Black.
The Count looked magnificent. He had a huge fur hat upon his narrow head. A gorgeous cloak of gold, its high raised collar trimmed with ermine, swept the sawdust and was secured about the Count’s slender throat by a golden brooch, engraved with enigmatic symbols. His great black beard was plaited into numerous colourfully beaded braids. His eyeballs glittered and his mouth was set in a yellow-toothed grin.
The Count threw wide his cloak, to reveal a crimson tunic worked with cloth-of-gold, pantaloons of yellow silk and high top boots of black patent leather. He extended his long and scrawny arms and waggled his twig-like digits. These were weighed heavily with gorgeous rings, many engraved with the inevitable enigmatic symbols.
“Greetings one and greetings all,” cried he.
And the crowd cheered and clapped some more. And the cabbie in Will’s seat whistled.
“My lords,” cried the Count. “My lords, my ladies and gentlemen, your Holiness the Pope, artists, poets, great thinkers of the age, I bid you welcome. And to Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, America and the African States, I am your humble servant, Ma’am.”
The Count bowed low, and the Queen giggled foolishly.
“I do believe he’s knocking her off, too,” Dr Watson whispered to Holmes.
“Tonight,” the Count took to strutting about the circus ring, the spotlight stalking his every step, “tonight, it is my pleasure to present for you an entertainment such as has never been witnessed before. One surpassing those of ancient Rome, or anything produced before the courts of Russia. You will witness wonders. You will experience thrills that will excite your nerves and stagger your senses. And, as Big Ben tolls midnight and the dawn of the twentieth century—” But then the Count paused and put a long and bony figure to his lips. “—then we shall see what we shall see, and you will bear witness to something that is beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“That’s something I’d like to see,” whispered the lady in a straw hat to her friend called Doris, “because my imaginings are rather wild.”
“And so,” the Count flung out his arms once more, “our show begins.”
“We’ve gone the wrong way,” said Tim. “Let’s try down that staircase there.”
Will scratched at his blondy head. “Has it occurred to you Tim,” he asked, “that this flying circus is somewhat bigger on the inside than it is on the outside?”
Tim made his bestest thoughtful face. “I wasn’t going to mention that,” he said.
“Down the staircase, then,” said Will.
The lights went up in the great big top and fifty dwarves upon ostrich-back[31] trooped into the ring. They steered their mounts through a complex dance routine, to the accompaniment of the orchestra, which played a selection of popular music hall numbers, including “Don’t jump off the roof, Dad, you’ll make a hole in the yard”, and “When your grey hair turns to silver, won’t you change me half-a-quid?”, and “Get out the meatballs, mother, we’ve come to a fork in the road”, which was always a favourite, but thankfully not the Big Boot Dance.
The crowd sang along with these, for they were the dance anthems of the day. Queen Victoria did the hand jive and Princess Alexandra, the five-knuckle shuffle.
Joseph Merrick simply hummed.
“Not bad, eh?” said the cabbie in Will’s seat. “Enjoying yourself, bruv?”
His plastered brother shook his head. “I’d be enjoying myself a great deal more, if I didn’t know that my aerial hansom was presently embedded in the roof of the Naughty Pope,” said he. “You big-nosed twat!”
Master Makepiece Scribbens gave his nose another powdering.
“A regular dandy,” whispered a voice at his ear.
Master Scribbens glanced into the mirror. Only his own reflection gazed back at him.
“It is I.” The voice belonged to Mr Wells. “Remember our rules. Do not acknowledge my presence, other than to nod or shake your head when deemed appropriate. Do you understand me?”
Master Scribbens nodded his wobbly head.
“Did you dispatch the complimentary tickets to William and Timothy?”
Master Scribbens nodded once more.
“Do you know whether they have taken their seats?”
Master Scribbens now shook his wobbly head.
“I have had no success in locating any computers aboard this vessel. Nor have I overheard anything suspicious. I do not know what to make of it.”
Master Scribbens gave his head a nod and then a shake.
“I hope we haven’t made a terrible mistake,” said Mr Wells.
“Cavalcade of Curiosities to the ring,” called a voice through the public address system in the Lower Rank Performers dressing room.
“I have to go,” whispered Master Scribbens.
“Break a leg,” said Mr Wells.
Tim tripped down the staircase. “Damn,” said he, as he picked himself up. “I thought I’d broken my leg.” His trouser was snagged up on a rivet, Tim yanked it free, ripping a hole in the fabric.
“Try and be careful,” said Will.
“Yes, well, I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. And I’ve ruined my smart trousers now.”
“I’m getting confused here,” said Will. “Doesn’t this corridor look exactly the same to you as the one we’ve just come from?”
“Do you mean we’ve been going around in circles?”
“Well, hardly, if we’ve just come down a staircase.”
“Let’s try this direction,” said Tim.
“I’ll follow you this time,” said Will.
Mr Wells followed the Brentford Snail Boy as he slid towards the circus ring. Mr Wells was most impressed by all he had seen of Count Otto Black’s flying circus and he felt quite certain that he had seen all of it. The symmetry of the corridors, the precision of the engineering. It was all so highly advanced. Even in this age of advancement, it was highly advanced. And he noticed for the first time a curious anomaly; that although the steel-tipped heels of his invisible shoes struck the steely floor of the corridor, they made no sound whatsoever. And yet earlier in the day they certainly had, and he had been forced to creep everywhere upon tiptoe for fear of being heard.
Mr Wells stopped, did a little jump, heard nothing, stroked his invisible chin and continued to follow the Snail Boy.
Will continued to follow Tim.
“Down this staircase,” said Tim.
“Fair enough,” said Will. “Careful you don’t trip this time.”
“Yes, as if I would.”
Tim took a step down the staircase, tripped and fell the rest of the way.
“You only did that to amuse me,” said Will, joining Tim at the foor of the stairs and helping him to his feet.
“I can assure you I did not.” Tim dusted himself down and gave the staircase a kick. “That’s curious,” said Tim.
“And rather pointless,” said Will. “Did you hurt your foot?”