Artie Conan Doyle and the Scarlet Phantom Page 5

  Peril let the dog’s paw drop and smiled at the boys. “He’s actually rather dear, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s a friendly old soul,” said Ham. “But I’ve never seen him do tricks before.”

  “Come on,” said Peril, leading them through a door.

  The room beyond was large and airy with a window overlooking a walled garden. There was a desk of black walnut with papers and magazines arranged neatly upon it, as well as pens, bottles of ink and several notepads. A tall bookcase crammed with textbooks occupied the adjacent wall. Artie noticed that one shelf was filled with the novels of the French author Jules Verne, such as Journey to the Centre of the Earth and Five Weeks in a Balloon.

  Dominating the other side of the room was a large table on which were set out a microscope, a Bunsen burner and an array of test tubes and specimen cases. From the mantle above the fireplace, a small stuffed crocodile and a lamprey in a jar peered down at them.

  They sat themselves around the desk while Berrybus plumped himself down on the carpet at Peril’s feet.

  “The Phantom struck again last night,” Artie told the others, “and I’m afraid, Peril, that none of what happened will fit your theories.”

  “Never mind about that, Doyle,” said Peril dismissively. “Let’s hear your report.”

  Artie gave a full account of last night’s events, including the inspector’s instructions that they were to keep this information to themselves.

  When he had finished his astonishing tale, Peril pushed her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose and gazed sternly at Artie like a teacher listening to a lame excuse for some missing homework.

  “Let me make sure I understand you, Doyle,” she said at last. “You’re saying some invisible entity drifted past a police guard into a locked room, assaulted the occupant, removed jewels from a secure safe, then disappeared into thin air?”

  Artie nodded unhappily. He was only too aware of how preposterous it all sounded. “It rather seems to defy explanation,” he confessed.

  “I suppose you think it was some sort of miracle,” said Peril, pronouncing the word as though it had a sour taste.

  “Not at all,” said Artie. “Miracles come from God, and God doesn’t help people commit robberies.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would,” said Peril. She bit her lip and pondered a moment. “Let’s approach this scientifically. The way we see things is when light reflects from an object and strikes the eye. To avoid being seen, you would have to alter light itself, which is a bit of a tall order.”

  “Perhaps the Phantom drinks some sort of chemical that makes him like glass,” Artie offered, “you know, so that light passes through him.”

  “Wouldn’t his clothes still be visible?” Ham wondered.

  “Yes,” Artie conceded, “I suppose he’d have to go around without any… well, you know.”

  Ham shuddered. “I certainly wouldn’t fancy walking around windy Edinburgh without any clothes on. Brrrrrr!”

  “Listen, you two,” Peril interposed firmly, “we need facts not fancies. This imaginary and quite impossible potion of yours would most likely poison him. And for another thing, if light passed straight through him, he wouldn’t be able to see. Not an ideal condition for a robber.”

  “Oh, I suppose you have some clever scientific explanation,” Artie challenged.

  Goaded, Peril stood up and strode over to the bookcase. She ran her finger over some of the titles, then spun round. “Perhaps…” She raised her index finger in the air. “Perhaps he wears a suit made of mirrors that reflects light away from him.”

  “In that case, anyone looking at him would see their own reflection,” said Artie, “and nobody saw that.”

  “Yes, yes, it was just an idea,” said Peril irritably. She began pacing the room so quickly Artie had to twist his head back and forth to keep track of her.

  “I hate to point this out,” said Ham slowly, “but both of you are ignoring the most obvious explanation.”

  “Really, Hamilton?” Peril halted in front of him and crossed her arms. “And what would that be?”

  “That he’s a ghost,” Ham declared. “Obviously.”

  “That would explain quite a bit,” Artie acknowledged. “But ghosts don’t go around stealing things, do they?”

  “They might,” said Ham. “A ghost might well get a bee in his bonnet about jewels. Maybe he was very poor when he was alive and he won’t be allowed to enter Heaven until he makes himself rich.”

  Peril clutched her head and groaned. “The pair of you are being ridiculous! There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you?” Artie countered. “Lots of people have seen them.”

  “Lots of people say they’ve seen them,” Peril insisted. “Probably just a shadow or a trick of the light.”

  Ham confronted her squarely. “So if the Phantom isn’t a ghost, how is he able to move about without being seen, walk through walls, send bronze busts flying through the air, and disappear without a trace?”

  Peril huffed for several seconds, then muttered, “I don’t know. Not yet.” She stalked away, grumbling to herself. “Ghosts indeed!”

  “To be honest, Ham,” said Artie, “while I’m prepared to believe in ghosts, I’ve never heard of one behaving like this. Especially not delivering warnings beforehand.”

  “It’s still the only way to explain it,” Ham persisted.

  “No, it’s not.” Peril rounded on the two boys. “Have either of you ever been to a magic show?”

  “We actually know quite a bit about magic shows,” said Artie.

  “Well, those fellows make it look like they’re doing the most impossible things,” Peril continued, “but really it’s all done with mirrors, smoke, dummies and suchlike. Pure trickery.”

  “Perhaps the police should just round up all the conjurers they can find and keep them locked up until one of them confesses,” Ham suggested.

  Peril snorted. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “So, if it is a trick,” said Artie, “how is it being done, who is doing it and why?”

  Peril took off her spectacles and polished them with a soft cloth. “Most likely it’s someone on the inside who would have the opportunity to rig up something like this.”

  “And who might that be?” Ham asked.

  “What about this Simpkin?” Peril replaced her glasses. “The secretary you told us about?”

  “Simpkin?” Artie said. “He’s as timid as a mouse. I can’t see him carrying out a jewel robbery.”

  “That could just be an act,” Peril pointed out. “Since he lives and works in the house, he would have the opportunity to rig up some hidden mechanism that might buffet his employer with blasts of air or even some form of magnetism.”

  “Constable Pennycook made a thorough search for secret doors,” Artie reminded her. “I think if there had been any sort of hidden device he would have stumbled upon it.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Peril. “He’s just a plodding policeman after all and probably wouldn’t notice any sort of clue. Really, this villain must have left some trace behind.”

  “Well, I did find these.” Artie reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper, which he opened to display the tiny shavings of wood.

  “Those are just splinters of wood,” said Ham. “What have they got to do with the Phantom?”

  “I found them under the study window,” Artie explained, “where I spotted that shadowy figure lurking.”

  To Artie’s surprise, Peril took an immediate interest in his minor piece of evidence. “Let me see,” she said, taking the paper from him and laying it on her desk. She whisked out her magnifying glass and made a minute examination.

  “They’re probably left from when the gardener was trimming the trees,” said Ham.

  “This wood doesn’t come from a tree,” Peril corrected him. “There are tiny flecks of red paint on it.”

  “Paint?” echoed Artie. “Why would there be paint?”

  “Does that make a difference?” inquired Ham.

  “Yes, yes, I see it now,” Peril mused. “Do you know what these are? They are shavings from a pencil, cut off with a penknife.”

  “You mean somebody was standing at the window sharpening a pencil?” Ham was dubious. “Who on earth would do that?”

  Artie clapped a hand to his forehead. “I know who!” he exclaimed. “It was the Ferret.”

  9.

  On the Trail of the Ferret

  The next instant, Peril’s house was rocked by a loud bang. Startled, Berrybus leapt to his feet, howling in dismay.

  “Oh no, not again!” Peril groaned, heading for the door.

  While Ham struggled to calm the huge black dog, Artie followed the girl up the hallway to the source of the noise. A door was flung open before them with a sign on it that read:

  KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING

  A gust of acrid smoke wafted out, followed by a handsome woman wearing goggles and a smock stained with chemicals. She closed the door behind her and all three of them spent a few moments coughing as the fumes dissipated.

  “Mother!” Peril scolded once the air had cleared. “You promised!”

  “Yes, I know,” the woman responded. “I was not expecting the solution to prove so volatile. But look at the result.”

  She handed her daughter what looked like half of a rock that had been split sharply down the middle. Peril adjusted her glasses and peered.

  “Why, it’s some sort of trilobite!”

  “Yes, which confirms my theory that the whole area will prove a rich source of fresh fossils.” The woman turned abruptly and thrust her hand at Artie. “Young man, I do not believe I have had the pleasure. Beatrice Abernethy.”

  In spite of
the fact that her hand was peppered with black powder, Artie shook it politely. “Arthur Conan Doyle, ma’m,” he introduced himself.

  Beatrice Abernethy tapped the rock with one finger. “Were you aware, young man, that Edinburgh is the birthplace of geology? Oh yes, it was while examining the Salisbury Crags out by Arthur’s Seat that the great James Hutton first formulated his theory that igneous rock has a volcanic origin far older than any biblical calendar.”

  Before Artie could respond, an enthusiastic panting announced the arrival of Berrybus. Dragging Ham helplessly along at the other end of his lead, the great hound made straight for Mrs Abernethy. He reared up, planting his enormous paws on her shoulders.

  Beatrice Abernethy calmly raised her goggles and scrutinised the dog with her intelligent blue eyes. “Ah, a mastiff – a very stalwart breed, descended from the ancient Alaunt and the Pugnaces Britanniae.”

  Berrybus rewarded her tribute with a lick on her nose before dropping down to lope back to his master.

  Ham was impressed. “You know a lot about dogs.”

  “I know a lot about every animal,” said Beatrice Abernethy. “That, combined with my expertise in geology, makes me one of the leading figures in the new science of palaeontology.”

  The last word rolled slowly off her tongue as though she relished the sound of it. Smiling at her daughter, she observed, “So, Pearl, are these the interesting young men you were telling me about – the investigators?”

  Artie nodded and Ham introduced himself. “Edward Hamilton, miss, I mean ma’m.”

  “Beatrice Abernethy,” said the woman, shaking him by the hand.

  “Whenever there’s any funny business going on,” Ham continued, “you’ll find us there. Not that we cause the funny business, you understand,” he added hastily.

  “Indeed, it is by investigating puzzles and anomalies that we make new discoveries,” said Beatrice Abernethy approvingly, “and achieve important breakthroughs in our understanding of the world. Just like when we pry open an oyster to find the precious pearl inside.”

  She gave her daughter an affectionate sidelong glance as she said ‘pearl’.

  “You mean like the precious stone?” Ham was momentarily confused. “But she told us her name was spelled like – urk!”

  He cried out as Peril stamped on his foot to silence him. “Hamilton, the kitchen is through that green door,” she suggested pointedly. “Why don’t you take your dog in there and give him a bowl of water to drink?”

  “I suppose he could probably do with a drink,” Ham conceded. As he dragged Berrybus away, he mumbled, “No need to stamp on a chap’s foot…”

  Beatrice Abernethy took a cloth from a pocket of her smock and began to wipe the soot marks from her face. Surveying Artie and Peril, she asked, “So, are you any closer to clearing up this Phantom nonsense?”

  “I have just discovered a clue,” said Peril with a glow of satisfaction.

  “And we’d better follow it up right away,” Artie put in, “while the trail is still fresh.” He didn’t want Peril repeating his account of last night’s events until they had made some progress.

  “I quite understand,” said the lady geologist, replacing her goggles. “I must continue with my work also. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Doyle, and your friend Mr Hamilton.” As she headed back into the smoky laboratory she paused to ask, “What is the name of his splendid dog?”

  “Berrybus.”

  “Yes, very fitting. Don’t be late for tea again, Pearl. We need to plan our trip to the Botanic Gardens on Saturday.”

  The door closed and Peril tutted to herself. “I do worry about her.”

  “She strikes me as a very competent lady,” Artie commented honestly.

  “Yes, of course, she is but… Look, we’d best get going. Where is Hamilton?”

  “Here,” said Ham, emerging from the kitchen with Berrybus, whose muzzle was dripping with water. “All I could find was a bucket, but that seemed to suit him.”

  As they walked up the hallway, Peril ducked back into her study to fetch her equipment.

  “I’d better get Berrybus back home,” said Ham as he and Artie stepped outside. “He’s getting hungry and I don’t want him to eat some passing cat.”

  “He certainly seems to have taken a liking to Peril and her mother,” said Artie.

  “You’d almost think he knew they were named after a biscuit,” said Ham.

  “Look, Peril and I will go and have a talk with the Ferret. We’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Alright,” Ham agreed. He added in a warning tone, “Don’t let her blow you up or anything.”

  As he disappeared up the street, being dragged helplessly along, Peril joined Artie on the doorstep. He explained that Ham was going home and the two of them set off for town.

  “My mother, as you can see, is a very intelligent and practical woman,” said Peril. “She’ll have no truck with ghosts and goblins, and neither will I.”

  “And we’re interesting young men, eh?” said Artie. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of us.”

  “I don’t,” said Peril tartly. “But I could hardly tell my mother I was associating with a pair of rash buffoons whose heads are full of wild fancies, could I?”

  “No, I don’t suppose you could,” said Artie, trying not to sound insulted. “So was your father not at home today?”

  “No.” A shadow passed over Peril’s face and she thrust her hands into her pockets. “The fact is, Doyle… The fact is that he died last year. A rockfall in the Pyrenees.”

  Artie felt his stomach sink. Many times over the past few years he had feared losing his own father to ill health. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been dreadful. Ham’s had to get along without his father too, and I know it isn’t easy.”

  “He was Dr Richard Abernethy, the eminent geologist,” said Peril, her sadness tinged with pride. “If he had lived he would have become famous for the discoveries he would have made. That’s why mother and I are so intent on searching for fossils.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Peril stopped and they faced each other. In her eye was the tiniest gleam of an unshed tear. “We want to discover the remains of some prehistoric creature that no one has found before. Then we’ll name it after my father in his honour. It will be called something like Neosaurus richardensis.”

  “I’m sure that will be a very fine tribute.”

  Peril sighed. “I only hope we can succeed.”

  “I think anything’s possible,” said Artie, “for a girl whose name means danger.”

  Although she tried to hide it, Artie spotted a pleased smile on Peril’s face before she turned away at the sound of a news vendor peddling his wares on the corner.

  “The Phantom strikes again! Read all about it here!”

  Artie was taken aback to hear that the robbery had made the news when Inspector McCorkle had been so determined to keep the incident under wraps. He felt around in his pocket for change and bought a copy of the Scotsman. He and Peril pressed together as they scanned the story with eager eyes.

  THE PHANTOM STRIKES AGAIN!

  The Scarlet Phantom, the invisible fiend who has already terrorised George Street with his bold assault on Mr Royston Kincaid on Monday morning, has attacked again, mysteriously penetrating the locked study of another of Edinburgh’s leading citizens.

  The story continued in this rather purple style, but Artie noticed that it was very short on details. The only facts presented were that a warning had been left for Mr Seaton and that, despite a police guard, he had been attacked in his study. There was nothing about the safe or the stolen rubies.

  “This seems to confirm that the Ferret was hiding outside the study window,” Artie surmised.

  “Might he be the one who engineered those events?” Peril wondered. “He might have obtained some sort of device that could penetrate the room and thrust Seaton against the wall.”

  “Even supposing he had such a thing,” Artie objected, “why on earth would he do it?”

  “To create a sensational story that will bring him fame,” said Peril. “That’s what every journalist wants, isn’t it?”