Snuff Fiction by Robert Rankin

And beneath this mouth was a chin so long that, when the merry lips were closed, it all but touched his hooter.
    He was dressed in the style of a Regency blade, with a high starched collar and white silk cravat. His waistcoat was red and a—twinkle with watch-chains. His tall-coat was green, with embroidered lapels. He was old and tall and skinny. He was weird and wonderful.
    At our approach he extended a long, thin, pale and manicured hand to shake the grubby mitt belonging to the Doveston.
    ‘My dear little Berty,’ he said.
    ‘Berty?’ I whispered.
    ‘And this would be your brother?’
    ‘Edwin,’ said the Doveston. ‘And this is my good friend Norman.’
    ‘Berty?’ said Norman. ‘Edwin?’
    ‘Norman is the son of Brentford’s pre-eminent purveyor of tobacco and confectionery.’
    ‘Fiddle dee, fiddle dum,’ went the professor. ‘I am honoured indeed.’ He fished into his waistcoat pocket and brought to light a marvellous snuffbox, silver and shaped like a coffin. This he offered in Norman’s direction. ‘Would you care to partake?’ he enquired.
    Norman shook his tousled head, which in profile resembled a pear drop. ‘No thanks,’ said he. ‘I find that stuff makes me sneeze.
    ‘As you will.’ The professor now grinned goldenly upon the Doveston. ‘Would you like a pinch?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes please, uncle,’ said the boy.
    Professor Merlin leaned forward. ‘Then you shall have one,’ he said and pinched him hard upon the ear.
    The Doveston howled and clutched at his lug-hole. Norman dissolved into foolish mirth and I just stood there, boggle-eyed and gaping.
    ‘Fairground humour,’ explained the professor. ‘What do you think of it?’
    ‘Most amusing,’ said I.
    ‘And what say you, Berty?’
    The Doveston wiped away tears from his eyes and managed a lopsided smirk. ‘Most amusing,’ he agreed. ‘I must remember that one.
    ‘Good boy.’ Professor Merlin handed him the snuffbox. ‘Then take a little sample and tell me what you think.’
    The boy gave the lid three solemn taps before he flipped it open.
    ‘Why do you do that?’ I asked.
    ‘Tradition,’ the Doveston told me. ‘For Father, Son and Holy Ghost.’
    ‘Born to the art,’ said the professor.
    The boy took snuff and pinched it to his nose. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and then made a thoughtfiil and satisfied face.
    Professor Merlin cocked his head. ‘Let us see if he can identify the blend. A form says he will not.’
    The Doveston’s nose went twitch twitch twitch and I awaited the inevitable explosion. But none came. Instead he just smiled, before reciting a curious verse.
     
    ‘Thai [went he,] and light as nutmeg.
    One part sassafras, one part sage.
    Strawberry seasoned, blueberry blended.
    Grad from the stock of the Munich Mage.
    Daintily dusted, finely ground.
    Bought in Bradford, two quid a pound.’
     
    ‘Remarkable,’ said the professor.
    ‘Rather too fussy for my taste,’ said the boy. ‘And more a winter blend, I would have thought. Would you like me to name both brand and supplier?’
    Professor Merlin nodded.
    ‘Crawford’s Imperial, from Cox’s Tobacco Emporium, High Street, Bradford.’
    ‘Incredible.’ Professor Merlin wrung his slender hands. ‘Even down to the hint of Grad. The boy is a gemus.
    ‘Poo,’ said Norman, who wasn’t impressed.
    ‘It was rather clever,’ I said, ‘and in a poem too.’
    ‘Poems are poofy,’ said Norman.
    I noticed now that the professor’s snuffbox was sliding into the Doveston’s pocket. The professor noticed this too and snatched it back. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
    The Doveston grinned. ‘That’s a form you owe me.
    The professor made mystical motions with his hands and produced a coin from thin air. The Doveston took it, bit it, examined it, slipped it in his pocket and grinned a little more.
    ‘Fiddle dee fiddle dum.’ Professor Merlin bowed. ‘You have impressed me as ever, my boy. So what have you come to see?’
    ‘Norman