6
Icarus Smith returned the cassette tape and address book to the relocated briefcase and departed from the Station Hotel. Following Hollywood’s example, he then placed the briefcase in a left luggage locker at the station. Put the key into an envelope, addressed this to himself, stuck a stamp upon it and popped it into the post box on the corner.
Having, of course, first assured himself that it was a real post box. Well, you never know.
“Right,” said Icarus, when all these things had been done. “First stop, Wisteria Lodge, home of Professor Partington. If I am to find this Red Head drug, or at least some clue as to its hidden location, the most logical place to begin my search would be there.”
And who could argue with that?
Wisteria Lodge was a grand old Georgian pile. It stood tall and proud with its heels dug into Brentford’s history and its head held high towards the changing of the times.
Because, as is often the case, certain additions had been made to the building over the years.
To the original Georgian pile had been added a Victorian bubo, an Edwardian boil and a nineteen-thirties cyst.
At the rear, work was currently in progress to construct a monstrous carbuncle.
Icarus stepped up to the front door and gave the knocker a knock. He waited a while and then knocked again, but answer came there none. Icarus became aware of the many keyholes in the front door and proceeded to the rear of the building.
The scaffolding was up, but the builders were absent. It was, after all, the afternoon now and builders rarely return from their lunches. Icarus tried the back door and found it to be unlocked.
To some this would be encouraging, but not to Icarus, who reasoned that an unlocked door is a likely sign of occupancy.
“Hello,” called Icarus. “Anyone at home?”
There didn’t seem to be.
Icarus entered the empty house and closed the door behind him.
He stood now in a hallway that could have done with a lick of paint, or a big French kiss of paper. Plaster had been ripped away from the walls and holes driven through the laths. Icarus stepped carefully over the rubble-strewn floor and made his way towards the front rooms.
These he found to be elegant and well proportioned. But utterly utterly trashed. Antique furniture smashed and broken, doors wrenched from hinges, marble fireplaces levered from the walls. Holes driven into the ceilings, floorboards torn from the floors.
Icarus surveyed the terrible destruction.
“It would seem”, said he, “that the men from the Ministry of Serendipity have done some pretty thorough searching here.”
Icarus now stood in what had once been a beautiful dining room. He righted an upturned Regency chair that still retained all of its legs and sat down hard upon it.
“But did they find what they were looking for?” he asked himself.
“Not if their language was anything to go by.”
Icarus turned at the sound of the voice and all but fell off the chair. In the doorless doorway stood a tiny man. He wasn’t just small, he was tiny. He had more the appearance of an animated doll than a human being. In fact, it was almost as if a ventriloquist’s dummy had been conjured into life.
Clearly this effect was one that the wee man sought to cultivate. For he had slicked back his hair and powdered his cheeks and pencilled lines from the corners of his mouth that met beneath his chin. He wore a dress suit, starched shirt with black dicky bow and patent leather shoes. And he leaned upon a slim malacca cane and eyed Icarus with suspicion.
“So what’s your game?” asked the miniature man. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you Professor Partington?” asked Icarus, rising to his feet.
“Of course I’m not. You know I’m not. I’m Johnny Boy, I am.”
“Pleased to meet you, Johnny Boy. My name is Icarus Smith.”
Johnny Boy cocked his head on one side. “Icarus Smith?” said he. “So what are you, Icarus Smith? You’re not a wrong’un, like those monsters from the Ministry.”
“Wrong’un?” said Icarus, recalling the expression from the cassette recording. “Just what exactly is a wrong’un?”
“You wouldn’t want to know and you’d better get out of that room real quick if you know what’s good for you.”
“Are you threatening me?” Icarus Smith approached the tiny man.
“No, I’m just giving you some sound advice. If you want to hang on to your sanity, I’d advise you to get out of the room before the four o’clock furore starts.”
“The four o’clock furore?” Icarus glanced down at his watch; it was almost four o’clock.
“Starts at the front door there. Goes up the stairs. Then all of that room goes all over the place.”
“What are you talking about?” Icarus peered over the small man’s head along the hallway towards the front door and then looked back into the ruined dining room. “What do you mean, it goes all over the place?”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to know. Just go out the way you came in and we’ll say no more about it.”
“I have some questions to ask,” said Icarus.
“And I have no answers to give.”
“Were you a friend of the professor?”
“Oh,” said Johnny Boy. “That’s how it is, then, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
Johnny Boy looked up at Icarus. Tiny tears were forming in the small man’s eyes. “You said were. The professor’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Icarus. “The men from the Ministry tortured him and he—”
“I don’t want to know.” Johnny Boy pinched at the tears in his eyes. “Just go away, will you? You’ll find nothing here.”
Icarus placed a gentle hand upon the small man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m truly sorry.”
Johnny Boy shrugged away the hand of Icarus Smith. “Go, before it’s too late for you.”
“What do you mean? I …” Icarus paused. “There’s a child,” said he. “Standing behind you, beside the front door.”
“It’s staring. Close your eyes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just do what I tell you. Close your eyes.”
“No, I won’t. I …” Icarus stared. The child was moving towards them now. A little girl with a sweet and smiling face. She had a head of golden ringlets and wore an old-fashioned yellow taffeta dress and a pair of pink ballet shoes.
She skipped along the hallway, seeming oblivious of the rubble and the mess.
“Hello,” said Icarus. “And what’s your name, little girl?”
“You can’t talk to them.” Johnny Boy had his eyes tight shut, but he shook his cane about. “Go out of the back door, quickly.”
Icarus dodged the shaking cane. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “It’s just a little girl. Oh, she’s gone. Where did she go?”
A flicker of movement caught his eye and Icarus looked once more into the devastated dining room. A tall man paced up and down before the vandalized fireplace. His face was slim and gaunt with a long hooked nose and a twisted lip and he wore upon his head a periwig. His costume was that of a Regency dandy, all frocked coat and lacy trims. He too appeared oblivious of the rubble and the rubbish, and just paced up and down.
“Who is he?” whispered Icarus. “How did he get past us?”
“Close your eyes, you stupid fool. Do what I tell you now.”
The woman came as a bit of a shock. She seemed suddenly to be there, sitting in a fireside chair. She wore a lavender dress and appeared to be knitting something of an indeterminate shape.
“There’s a woman now,” whispered Icarus. “Where did she come from?”
Icarus sensed, rather than saw, the next arrival. He became aware of a hulking presence, of something oversized, passing him and entering the dining room. It was a giant of a man, with long wild hair, back from the hunt, by the cut of his clothes.