Part Three: A Perilous Game Afoot

LEINIGEN & THE LAMBETH TREASURE

A Twitter adventure told in portions of 140 characters or less.

Part Three: A Perilous Game Afoot

So here I was, an adventurer very much not abroad, turning out to be sat on top of a great treasure guarded by a made-up fifty-foot lizard.

‘Sam,’ I said. ‘We investigate, forthwith.’ The old buzzard clucked a bit, but I shushed him and set about preparing for the expedition.

Clad in Irish thornproof, I packed compass, gun and knife. Sam filled hipflasks with Clipstone’s and messed up two oilskins of sandwiches.

Moving stealthily through the dank Lambeth night, we arrived at Blake’s house in no time. Sam knocked while I lurked in flitting shadows.

A crone answered the door. ‘Yes, sirs?’ she lisped. ‘Mrs Cryptoides,’ Sam whispered. ‘Housekeeper. I water her radishes on Tuesdays.’

Evidently, Sam had the old lag’s trust – in moments we were sitting by a rather anaemic fire in what must once have been Blake’s parlour.

Cryptoides – Greek, I supposed, and bent double under a truly significant hump – clattered about in an adjoining kitchen. I turned to Sam.

‘I’ll keep Mrs C happy,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t see, hear, taste, smell or, ah, touch so well.’ ‘Righto,’ I said. ‘Upstairs,’ he said.

I slipped out. Musty stairs led upward. Upstairs to find a portal to a subterranean realm? Rum. But then, so was this Blake lad. I climbed.

The stairs creaked, but I could hear Sam talking loudly to the crone. Something about fossilised palm fronds. ‘Each to his,’ I thought.

Portraits lined the walls – birds in ruffs, blending to coots in stocks and kerchiefs. Literary chaps, I imagined. Milksops. I forged on.

At the top of the stairs, flickering gaslight lit a passage. More portraits – gooseberry eyes weakened by too many books in such poor light.

‘Exercise, lads,’ I murmured. ‘The great outdoors… shoot yourselves some big game… caribou to start you off, then elk, I should sa… Ah hah!’

Unfortunate habit, talking to myself. Not much use when stalking giant beaver on the Siberian tundra. But never mind. I had come to a door.

I pushed the door; it creaked open. I beheld a study. A desk, a chair, a sagging chaise longue. A don’s bolthole, I thought. But the smell…

Not dust. Something… older. The room hung with something between a mist, a pall and a miasma. Slowly, I realised what it was. It was time.

Silently, I drew my revolver. Cocking the hammer, I stepped into Blake’s study. Floorboards creaked. In the centre of the room, I turned.

Against the wall, opposite the desk, stood a bookcase. Dusty tomes leaned and sagged. Bibles. Theological commentaries. Prolix verbosities.

I turned away, but checked as something caught my eye. Just visible over the top of the bookcase was the top corner of a small metal door.

I edged the bookcase from the wall. Sure enough, I had cornered my quarry. Sam’s portal looked solid, but as I probed gently, it opened.

With a click, the doors swung. Inwards, luckily. A rush of damp air carried the flick-flack of bats’ wings and a faint taste of the Thames.

Squatting, I peered into the darkness. As my eyes grew accustomed I made out rough-hewn stone stairs, leading down to a faint glow of light.

This was it. Blake’s portal to the Lambeth Labyrinth. Below lay adventure. The unknown. Treasure and, maybe, an overgrown homicidal gecko.

I exulted. Thoughts of escape were for nought. All those years abroad, and such vaulting possibility had lain undiscovered here, in Lambeth.

Instinct told me to forge ahead, to plunge into the darkness. But decency spoke otherwise. I shut the doors, replaced the case and withdrew.

Downstairs, Sam massaged the bunioned feet of a snoring Mrs Cryptoides. I treated him to an arched eyebrow. We slipped into Hercules Road.

Conferring neath a bristling privet, I told Sam of my astonishing discovery. He blanched and swallowed, but failed to hide his excitement.

We seized our moment. I eased open the door of Blake’s house and we slipped back inside. Mrs Cryptoides snored. We climbed the dark stairs.

In the study, I revealed the portal. Sam gasped. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘The Lambeth Labyrinth lies below… the Lambeth Treasure too.’

I grinned. ‘Hard to be sure, ain’t it? But standing here won’t help. After you, old man.’ Gingerly, Sam stepped into the Labyrinth’s gloom.