Champagne Charlie and the Amazing Gladys

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A man of the cloth – the telescope – the man that is tired of corned beef – a question of souls – a message – planning

In the eastern part of London, the Rev Dr Lemuel Pannett examined the moon through a reflector telescope of his own design. The fog rose from the nearby Thames, but Pannett remained high above it, ensconced in his makeshift observatory in the Georgian bell tower of St Edwin’s. It was not an especially good place for stargazing, but the doctor was a past master at making do. Even the occasional movements of night-time aeroplanes seldom bothered him, though streaks of vapour from their turbines occasionally obscured his vision.

Footsteps from the staircase proclaimed the approach of his sister, Janet. Dr Pannett was a bachelor and Janet acted as his housekeeper, an arrangement that neither pleased nor displeased either party.

Janet was a short, hunched woman with a receding forehead, no chin, and prominent front teeth. Pannett sighed at her appearance, knowing that he resembled her closely. His parishioners tried hard not to comment on his looks, which led to frequent changes of subject when an anecdote was headed toward a rat or a mouse.

“My new cat is a great… purrer,” they would say, suddenly unable to meet his eye. Worse were the looks he got from the local rat-catcher, who would spend every Sunday sermon staring at him with keen professional interest.

All in all, Dr Pannett preferred looking at the stars. They didn’t look back.

Janet laid a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea on the stone ledge of the tower. “Do you see them?” she asked.

“No, not tonight,” Pannett said, taking a sandwich. “Corned beef again?”

“I have been looking over your sermon for this Sunday,” Janet said. “I have had to edit it quite severely.”

“I would not mind so, if there were some relish. Mustard pickles, perhaps. Plain corned beef is such dull fare.”

“There were no fewer than five misattributed biblical passages, including a verse from Judges that was misrepresented as a Psalm, and a short paragraph that was not a biblical quotation at all. It comes from the Pilgrim’s Progress, yet you claimed it as a quotation from the Third Epistle to Timothy—a book that does not in fact exist.”

“Even a little cheese would suffice,” Pannett said. “Just something to lend some variety to the taste of corned beef. Don’t you agree?”

“Those are trifling details,” Janet said. “The main problem was the theme, which could hardly be called Anglican in character. Indeed, I should say it scarcely qualifies as Christian at all. You really must not innovate so.”

“Or we could just leave out the sandwiches altogether and eat eggs. Yes. Boiled eggs, next time, if you please.”

Wiping his hands on his handkerchief, Pannett returned to his telescope. “Still no movement,” he said. “I wonder if we have things wrong. Perhaps they are not all leaving, after all.”

“You think us safe, Lemuel?”

“No, I suppose not,” he said. A weariness came over him, and his hunched shoulders bowed further yet. “We had so much time. It did not ever seem we might run short.”

He watched the waxing moon a little longer. It was like staring into the face of a hungry lion.

“I’d best pack up,” he said. “Viewing conditions worsen.”

He began packing away his lenses and threw a tarpaulin cover over the telescope’s tripod. The fog was gathering and Janet clutched her heavy coat tight about her.

“You really must try harder with your sermons,” she said. “Someone is bound to notice that you’re doing them so badly.”

“I do my best. But matters of the spirit don’t come easily to me. Remember, I have no soul.”

“Nor do I, Lemuel,” Janet said. “Nevertheless, we must try.”

Down below in their snug little vicarage, a neatly folded piece of paper lay on the doormat. Dr Pannett stepped over it, but Janet picked it up, tutting at the black stains it left on her fingers. Once it was open, she let out a squeal.

Pannett read the paper over her shoulder. It was an advertising handbill—for a magic act, of all things. A cheap engraving showed a rotund gentleman made up like a Turk, standing before an assortment of cabinets. He waved a magic wand at a Junoesque young lady, who seemed ready to swoon at the sorcerer’s power. The image of the lady was quite well drawn. Perhaps she was the only element of the scene that had held the engraver’s interest. The magician’s wand was circled in blue ink, as were a handful of words in the text of the advertisement: “disappearing in plain sight!”

“Do you think, Lemuel?” Janet said. Her usually stern expression had given way to a look of hope so powerful it seemed almost like hunger. “Could it be?”

“You know what this wand is as well as I,” Pannett said. “It can only be that which we seek!”

“Who do you think sent this message?” Janet said, suddenly suspicious.

“Does it matter?” Pannett said. “It is too late to do anything tonight. We must plan for tomorrow. The Great Abu ben Abdullah, performing nightly at the Imperial Music Hall. Now, how shall it be done?”

Janet stopped him with a gesture. “Wait, Pannett. Do nothing yet.” From the bookshelf, she took a London guidebook, located the Imperial, and marked its location with a neat little circle of pencil. “There! Now you will not forget where to go.”