Kiss of the Water Nymph Page 2

  “Quiet, Esme!” her husband grunted. “I apologise for my wife’s nose. It’s forever poking in other people’s business.”

  “Oh, shush!” Mrs Bickers slapped his forearm.

  “Well,” I said, glad to have the conversation steered away from creepy crawlies, “it started out as mere footling around but then I hit upon an idea that should keep me out of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” asked Charles, earning himself another slap on the forearm from his wife.

  “Rather you ask about the idea, my sweet,” she said, rolling her eyes at me.

  “Ah, yes; quite.”

  I told them then about the contest. My fellow travellers and I would entertain each other with stories as a means to pass the time more agreeably and when we reached our destination, the winner would be announced to the general acclaim of all participants.

  “Ah, I see,” Charles was nodding but his wife had raised a finger of enquiry.

  “And who is the arbiter? Who decides which story is best?”

  “Why, I shall.” It seemed obvious to me.

  “What utter piffle!” she scorned. “Rather there should be a ballot at the end. Let democracy reign!”

  Charles blustered in embarrassment. “I must apologise for my wife. She does tend to be outspoken.” I waved him down before he could inflict deeper wounds on his marriage.

  “She makes an excellent point,” I told him, and then - what the hell? - I told the good lady directly to her face. “Very well. So shall it be.”

  “Hurrah!” cried Mrs Bickers. She beckoned a waiter and ordered a round of drinks to mark the moment.

  “How many takers?” said Charles, after we had clinked our glasses.

  “Only one,” I was almost shy to admit. “But a jolly good one nevertheless.”

  “And who was the teller of this jolly good tale? Is he on board?” Mrs Bickers glanced around.

  “In point of fact,” I told her, “that young lady at whom you are currently staring is the teller and perhaps the author of the story.”

  “What? That dainty little filly or the Easter Island harridan at her side?”

  “I must apologise for my husband,” said Mrs Bickers, swatting at Charles for a third time. “He does tend to be ungallant.”

  “The filly - that is to say, the young woman. The other, I believe, is her governess.”

  “Then they must join us!” Charles got to his feet and made a beeline for them. I prepared an apology but Charles Bickers was not a man to take no for an answer. Within half a minute he was shepherding Miss Clarissa and Miss Seton toward our table.

  “It is only fitting,” said he, “that every participant should attend every tale. How else are they to vote for the winning entry?”

  Mrs Bickers regarded me with an eye that almost dared me to contradict. The fellow was altogether correct; of course he was, and readily I declared him to be so.

  Miss Clarissa was eager to join our company but, predictably, her governess was not. She withdrew to their compartment, warning her charge not to tarry longer than an hour for the night was drawing in.

  And so it was. The last of the sunset had dissolved into darkness and the only illumination came from the elegant table lamps. It seemed a more appropriate atmosphere for the sharing of tall tales.

  Charles announced he was throwing his helmet into the ring, by which he meant he had a story to tell. He wet his throat with more champagne and, revelling in our undivided attention, began.

  ***

  The Greenhouse Gorgon

  Great Uncle Willoughby was one of those inquisitive types so feted in our age: an explorer and adventurer but above all a scientist, setting foot in the dark places beyond even the reach of the Empire.

  As a boy he filled his room with insects pinned to boards and catalogued blades of grass with an assiduousness that was borderline psychotic. He eschewed the conventional route of education opting, instead of university, to apprentice himself to one of the lesser-known explorers of the day: the late and largely forgotten Professor Maurice Fitzmaurice. Together they sailed the South China Sea and, for forty years, the soles of Willoughby’s shoes did not touch British soil.

  But then, one year, a year framed in infamy, he returned.

  A curious figure in safari suit and snow shoes, Willoughby peered out from behind half-moon spectacles and from beneath a shock of frizzy ginger hair. There were rumours he had a hand in the disappearance of Professor Fitzmaurice and the subsequent publication in which he documented the discovery of thirty-three hitherto unknown species of stinkweed may not have been entirely Willoughby’s own work. If at all.

  It was under this cloud of suspicion that great uncle Willoughby came back to the family seat. A greenhouse, constructed following instructions he sent from abroad, was nearing completion, and he called upon his nephew (my father, Charles Bickers senior) to assist with the installation of some of the more exotic plants.

  The boy worked hard and Willoughby was delighted to see his passion for flora and fauna passing through the generations. He called young Charles to the greenhouse one evening for a special treat.

  “The time has come, my beamish boy, to reveal to you the centrepiece, the crowning glory of my horticultural collection. You are among the first to see it on these shores. This is a great and rare honour for you.”

  “Golly, Uncle; thank you, Uncle.”

  Willoughby clapped his hands twice. A woman stepped out from behind some imported palm trees. She was dressed in a sarong and turban of bright colours and her face was veiled. She carried a large flowerpot covered by a cloth.

  “That’s it, my dear,” Willoughby beamed. “Bring it in.”

  The woman bowed her head and placed the covered flowerpot on a table.

  “The far East, my boy! The South China Sea, home to many beauties; two of which you see before you right now. The first: my protégée, rescued from a fire in her village. They thought her a witch but we in the civilised world have no truck with superstitious fiddle-faddle, the saints be praised! She has been my constant companion and my stick of rock ever since, and nary a word spoken since I untied her from the stake. Never has she revealed her face; I suspect some damage was sustained during her incarceration - and we all know what the ladies are like with their vanity, what! I present the enticing and beautiful Shappa Haras!”

  The woman bowed again and performed a graceful dance, evoking thoughts of the Balinese and the Chinese opera.

  Young Charles clapped politely but uncertainly.

  “Now, Shappa, ’tis time to reveal my greatest discovery. Behold, boy - oh, behold! The Willoughby Gorgon!”

  He whipped the cloth from the flowerpot, revealing an ugly plant with a gaping maw and snakelike fronds.

  “Ugh,” said young Charles.

  “You are right to recoil, lad. The Gorgon is deadly. A flesh-eater! Note these markings: like googly eyes. They hypnotise its prey, drawing it ever closer until... SNAP! The jaws close and the unfortunate victim is dissolved in powerful gastric juices.”

  “Ugh,” the boy repeated. “It stinks.”

  “It does whiff a bit when it requires feeding,” Willoughby conceded. “I believe its carrion stench attracts scavengers. Jackals, buzzards and so on. Then they catch sight of the ‘eyes’, come over all mesmeric and SNAP!”

  “Golly.”

  “They’ll come flocking to see this, my lad. The only one in captivity. This will restore my standing among the horticultural academes. This will wipe clean any blemish from my tarnished reputation once and for all.”

  “Er, Uncle?” Young Charles raised a hand to interrupt.

  “What, lad?”

  “If it’s so dangerous, how come it hasn’t had Miss Haras’s hand off yet?”

  “Clever boy!” Willoughby tousled Charles’s hair. “Observant too! To answer your question: Shappa Haras is a plantvoyant. A fact which may have led to that little misunderstanding in her village. She can talk to plants in a way we are unable. And this is why, my lad, you must never approach the Gorgon unless Miss Haras is present. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Uncle; no, Uncle.”

  “Then all will be well. And now, my boy, tea! Lead on!”

  Alone in the greenhouse, the exotic woman made an arcane gesture above the plant. The Gorgon nodded slowly.

  A while later, the gardener had occasion to visit the greenhouse. With a sturdy broom he set to sweeping the floor. Behind him the strange and hideous plant perked up and emitted a blast of its rotting-meat stench. The gardener paused, reeling. He wafted a hand behind his back and carried on sweeping. The plant seemed to follow his progress around the greenhouse...

  Suddenly, there was ‘eye’ contact. The gardener froze, transfixed. The plant lifted a tendril and beckoned the man to come closer... and closer...

  SNAP!

  The jaws clamped around the gardener’s hand, waking him from his trance. He wrestled to pull himself free and, with a scream, drew back a bloody stump that spurted and sprayed all over the floor. He swooned and dropped to his knees. The Gorgon’s jaws stretched wide and closed around the gardener’s head.

  The disappearance of the gardener was followed by the absence of several other members of the household. Willoughby spent more and more time in the greenhouse, jealously guarding his precious plant. The mysterious Miss Haras remained at his side and danced for him.

  “Ah, Miss Haras, Miss Haras! Allegations are being whispered. Fingers are being pointed. Our host - my brother - believes my beautiful Gorgon is at the bottom of the disappearances. He thinks the pong of it is putting people off and they’re leaving without giving proper notice. As you know, I am anosmic; I have no sense of smell. Tell me, is it really that unbearable?”

  Shappa Haras gave a shrug and clinked the cymbals on her fingertips together. She handed Willoughby a sheet of paper.

  “What’s this then, what?” Willoughby squinted through his half-moon glasses. “By Jove, it’s a list! Who are all these people? Friends of yours? Relations?”

  The veiled head nodded.

  “‘Little Geeta, scullery maid... Upjong Biltong, gamekeeper... Uncle Vanya, chauffeur...’ What are you suggesting? These people replace the missing staff?”

  The covered face remained inscrutable.

  “Well, I think it’s a capital idea!” Willoughby rolled up the sheet and brandished it like a baton. “I shall relay this list to my brother at once. You have saved the day! Oh, to kiss that unseen cheek! But no! To my brother! I am certain he will ship them all over forthwith.”

  Alone with the Gorgon, Shappa Haras rolled her dark eyes.

  But the friends and relatives were never summoned. Shappa Haras’s hold over great uncle Willoughby was broken soon afterwards.

  Young Charles was home and, with no studies to occupy him since the mysterious disappearance of the governess, decided to pass the time watering the plants and generally tidying up. He knew better than to go near the Gorgon but, as he approached the greenhouse, he saw that the sphinx-like Miss Haras was already there.

  She was gyrating to music only she could hear. The Gorgon was swaying in time. Young Charles watched, fascinated. Unfortunately, he knocked a trowel from the table. Shappa Haras froze. She turned to face the interloper; her veil was off. Young Charles gasped and recoiled to see her gaping mouth, identical to the plant’s, ringed with snakelike tendrils. He tripped over a rake and fell to the floor.

  Shappa Haras bore down on him, hissing. She reached her long fingers towards the boy’s eyes but came to a sudden stop. She stiffened and screeched with pain and outrage. She wheeled around to see great uncle Willoughby, pumping weed killer all over her from a spray gun. Shappa Haras shrank and screamed, melting like ice before a naked flame. After a moment, nothing remained.

  “Uncle!” the boy jumped up and hugged Willoughby in gratitude.

  Willoughby looked at the spot where the plantvoyant had been. “She was blighted, my boy,” he said sadly. “My little Shappa Haras.”

  Behind them, the Gorgon blew one last noxious raspberry and flopped. Dead.

  International renown never came to great uncle Willoughby. Perhaps nothing haunts a man like unrealised ambition. He spent the rest of his days in the greenhouse, cataloguing his discoveries and keeping a watch on the Gorgon in case it raised its ugly head again.

  Some say his spirit lingers, so if you happen upon a foul stench, like that of an open drain or meat rotting in the sun, hold your nose and close your eyes. And light a match in memory of great uncle Willoughby, who is still watching over us with his weed killer spray.

  ***

  The entire carriage was captivated by Charles’s tale. The waiters stopped serving in order to give him their enrapt attention and, at the doors, passengers from the second and third class carriages were crammed against each other, straining to hear.

  When he reached the conclusion, there was a moment of silence and then an outpouring of applause and congratulation. Hands appeared to slap Charles on the back. Mrs Bickers was beaming with pride.

  Of all of us only Miss Clarissa seemed put out. I ventured to ask if she had not enjoyed the narrative and she declared it to be marvellous and fantastical and superior to her own - I dismissed this latter charge as a matter of opinion and gave assurance that she was still very much in the running.

  No one was willing to contribute another story that evening and so, with the entertainment over, it was merely a matter of brandy and cigars before retiring.

  Chapter Three

  I had a compartment to myself, having booked both bunks. I prefer my own company at night - make of that what you will.

  The steady rhythm of the train and the brandy-induced wooziness soon had me firmly in the clutches of Morpheus. A thick, dreamless sleep absorbed my consciousness and I am quite certain I must have snored for England.

  At about three thirty, I was obliged to wake up and answer Nature’s call. The train company provides porcelain gazunders for the relief of passengers during the night but I spurned the thing. No matter how many pretty roses decorate the rim, it remains an inescapably vulgar object. Instead, I left my compartment and waddled along the corridor, caroming off the walls courtesy of the motion of the train. I located the water closet and availed myself of it forthwith.

  More alert and steadier on my feet, I made my way back but had cause to pause at the door of the neighbouring compartment. I could hear a woman weeping and my first thought was of Miss Clarissa. Was she really so upset about the superior quality of Charles Bickers’s tale that she was sobbing herself to sleep? If so, she was not the stout-hearted young woman I took her to be.

  Back in my bed, I found Morpheus had abandoned me. I lay awake and stared at the darkness over me. I tried to focus on the relentless tattoo of the wheels rushing over the sleepers but only found myself pondering the bitter irony of the term: a sleeper indeed!

  And then, in that drowsy, half-watching, half-dozing state, I had the sensation that someone was in the compartment with me. I propped myself on my elbows and strained to see but the blinds over the windows were such a perfect fit, the darkness they provided was absolute and impenetrable. I considered reaching for the oil lamp but were I to succeed in lighting it, I would be relinquishing my only advantage - the intruder could not see me either.

  I froze and held my breath. The feeling of a presence increased. The air became heavy and chilly. My skin began to crawl.

  The blighter must have crept in while I was in the water closet and this is how Hector Mortlake will meet his demise: murdered on the Orient Express! Oh well, chin up, I tried to console myself. At least it will give someone a story to tell.

  There appeared a tightness in my chest as though my ribs were being constricted. I found myself pushed back by invisible pressure and there - above me - two eyes glowed, hovering in the air. Sea green and beautiful they seemed to be looking right into my very soul. There was a glimmer of a face around them, High cheekbones and full lips, rippling like a face underwater. This is my murderer then: a beautiful woman. Every hair on my body stirred as though I had stepped into a shower of cold water.

  The eyes winked out. The face was gone and I drifted down into the dreamless state again and was at peace for the rest of the night.

  ***

  Bleary-eyed I attended to my toilet the next morning, laying blame at the brandy’s door rather than any nocturnal visitations. I saw the dissipation in my eyes’ reflection in my shaving mirror - it is quite a feat to shave one’s face on a moving train, let me tell you. Somehow I escaped with nary a nick to my chin and throat - I leave my chops and moustaches as fashion dictates.

  I joined the Bickerses for breakfast. They too seemed a little subdued - Mr B, in particular. We exchanged ‘good mornings’ and placed our order. They opted for kippers but I chose a more palatable porridge with raisins.

  “You must forgive our subdued mood, Mr Mortlake,” Mrs Bickers whispered. “We had a rough night.”

  “Nightmares, don’t you know?” Charles confided.

  “Well, you had,” said his wife. “And with you tossing and moaning the night away, my own sleep was completely ruined.”

  A cold finger had touched my neck at the sound of the word. “You had nightmares?” I asked, affecting nonchalance while I tucked my napkin on my lap.

  “Terrifying! Although I cannot quite recall the nature of them in the cold light of day.”

  “A succubus!” Mrs Bickers adopted a melodramatic expression. She laughed but neither her husband nor I joined in. I hoped to get him alone for a moment to enquire further about the nature of his disturbed rest.

  “Good morning!” Miss Clarissa appeared with the brightness and gaiety of youth shining out of her face.