LEINIGEN & THE LAMBETH TREASURE
A Twitter adventure told in portions of 140 characters or less
Part Twelve: A Fight Develops… Entertainingly
One of my strengths – even charms, if you will – is a predisposition to choose action over negotiation. War-war over jaw-jaw, if you like.
And so, at a sight to madden any Britisher – a captive Archbishop beset by Church of England ultras and deposed by a robot clone – I acted.
I did not gasp, or gawp, or look to Moon and demand to know what in the name of Beelzebub he meant by all this. Instead, I turned sharply.
Simon, the rubbery YMCE pasha, stood nearby. I roared, and as his eyes widened in surprise I drove the heel of my hand, hard, into his nose.
As an adventurer, such techniques come with the territory. Nothing to do with eastern teachings; Tai-Chi and I-Ching and wotsits like that.
No, the tactics I learned on the rugger pitch at prep have served me ever since. At my attack, Simon of the YMCE buckled like a satchel.
His nose retreated under my hand like a wet beanbag dropped on gravel. There was a spout of rich red blood, as from a stuck sperm whale.
Simon yelped, I span to face the rest of the YMCE and chaos reigned. I dove for the nearest youth and butted him in his cable-knit cardigan.
Exultant, sparks blazing in fierce eye, I met my next assailant with a straight left and a slightly bent right. He fell. Another came on!
‘Leinigen!’ Amidst whirling fists and boots I heard Vespa’s voice. Panicked. Pausing only to poke a finger into a passing eye, I looked up.
Vespa shrieked. The sight beggared belief: the Reverend Moon had my companion by the neck as he dragged her towards the Archbishop’s cage!
Moon was surprisingly strong; Vespa’s boots skittered on the parquet floor. ‘Hold on, old girl,’ I roared, flinging a YMCE chap at a table.
‘Sorry boys,’ I said. ‘Back in a mo.’ I sprinted towards Moon and Vespa. At which point Moon surprised me by pulling a gun from his cassock.
It was a snug and ugly piece. A Mauser, I guessed. I stopped, as such firearms make advisable, and shot Moon a suitably disdainful glance.
‘I didn’t know prelates carried,’ I said. ‘Oh yes,’ simpered the Reverend Moon, his aim unwavering. ‘In certain parishes it is necessary.’
Lambeth. It figured. The streets round Sam’s gaff were a little unsavoury. Loitering types, greengrocers. I’d put up with it, as was polite.
But we were off the point. The point was that Moon had a gun and I didn’t, my revolver having been taken in the anteroom. He also had Vespa.
Not removing his aim from me, and continuing to show unsuspected strength, Moon opened the door of the Archbishop’s cage with his foot.
The YMCE, pleasingly beaten and bedraggled, milled about, staunching wounds and rubbing sore temples. I allowed myself a satisfied grunt.
But the Reverend Moon stood before me still, his ugly Mauser levelled, a mocking smile playing about his thin and bloodless lips. He spoke.
‘You still have it, Brother Leinigen.’ I wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, unless the Nurse on the steamer home had been fibbing. ‘I am impressed.’
‘But I have the gun, which places you at a disadvantage.’ I glared at him and flicked out my boot to catch an importune YMCEr in the groin.
Moon continued. ‘Brother Leinigen, you and your concubine have shown considerable spunk. I congratulate you. But it will not be enough.’
I wasn’t sure about his calling Vespa my concubine. Not done before the ladies have retired and the cigars have come out. But I let it pass.
Moon kept his gun levelled while he turned away from Vespa and the Archbishop, and towards the Taxus Brevifola, which lay open on a table.
I didn’t like the look of that, so I spoke up. ‘Not that dratted book again, Moon old boy?’ The Reverend looked sideways at me, and smiled.
Turning the pages, he said: ‘I am afraid so, sir, yes. Shortly, I must leave you. The book will, ah, occupy you sufficiently in my absence.’
Moon reached his desired page. He called to the YMCE, who surrounded me. Simon, nose bloodied, produced my own revolver and levelled it.
‘I say,’ I said. ‘Bit off, ain’t it? Taking a chap’s shooting stick and pointing back at him?’ Simon, his eyes watering, tried to glare.
I was distracted from any response. At a strange mumbling from Moon, I turned. Bent over the Taxus Brevifola, he seemed to be… chanting.
‘Ames-Lewis, Hartt, Fried and Nochlin,’ Moon said. I puzzled. ‘Penrose, Richardson, Burckhardt, Nead.’ The penny dropped. Art historians.
Moon paused in his incantation. The air in the hall fell still. In the cage, Vespa got off the Archbishop and stood, staring. I waited.
Moon spoke again, pouring out a strange agglomeration of vowels. I flinched – it all sounded a little new-agey. Then Moon clapped, sharply.
‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Simon! Come.’ The YMCE, led by their snivelling kapo, circled warily round me and gathered behind Moon at the door.
‘Goodbye, Leinigen,’ said Moon. ‘I have business in… Edinburgh.’ Edinburgh? I tried to make sense of it. Not easy. Scotched, I stood silent.
Moon reached out an arm and flicked a switch on the wall. Before my eyes, the cage containing Vespa and the Bish dropped through the floor!
Cardinal Wolsey, a fierce glint in his portly eye, was climbing out of the portrait that hung on the wall. This was going to be difficult.
From below came a heavy thud and the grumble of a revving engine. Moon answered my look. ‘A flatback truck,’ he said. ‘Ugly, but necessary.’
More questions were impossible. Moon and his goons backed out of the hall, taking the Taxus Brevifola and covering me with raised pistolas.
The heavy oak door closed. Motes of dust glittered in shafts of light from the windows. I counted to ten, then made for the door in pursuit.
At a strange, dry, papery sound behind me, a kind of tearing, I stopped. The Taxus Brevifola. Moon’s incantation. This did not bode well.
As I turned, a chill fingered down my spine. It was incredible. Impossible. Maniacal. But it could not be denied, however I rubbed my eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment