The New Death and others by James Hutchings Page B

had been called in by the police when their
own enquiries proved fruitless. Indeed, they were hard-pressed to
even conceive how such a man could have enemies. It was Sir
Benjamin who had founded the Evolent Scholarships, by which orphan
boys were fed in return for beating up the Irish. He had done much
to mitigate two great evils; hungry orphans, and unbeaten Irishmen.
He also made large contributions to the RSPCA( 1 ).
    My friend had never failed to uncover the
guilty party. He had exposed the secrets even of the mysterious
ninjas (although he been attacked by them, and suffered a ninjury).
But on this occasion, several weeks of investigation had borne no
fruit. Sir Benjamin also had a great fondness and sympathy for
members of the Jewish race, and often let members of that group
stay at his home, whether they wanted to or not. It might be
thought that he had suffered some mishap at their hands. But they,
as superstitious in London as in the deep jungles of their tropical
homeland, were terrified of Sir Benjamin.
    Thus it was that I was in a somewhat
pessimistic mood as I made my way to my friend's rooms. I found
him, as I often did, in a chemically-induced stupor.
    "Good evening Doctor. What's on?" he said,
and laughed like a drain for several minutes.
    "Yes. Very droll," said I. "Gad man--can you
at least close your robe?"
    "The human body is a thing of beauty," he
replied.
    "Not in all cases," I said,
shielding my gaze from 'the Baker Street Irregular', which I had
seen only once before( 2 ).
    When my friend had composed himself, we took
a coach to a new Viennese restaurant, Freud's, which promised 'food
just like Mother used to make'.
    "Forgive my over-indulgence,"
said my friend, as he thrust Freud's house special, a huge
throbbing sausage, into his mouth, "but this case has me at my
wit's end. In addition, the pornographer William Anonymous, who I
apprehended recently( 3 ), has escaped
prosecution. He was able to show that his product was not
pornography, but erotica."
    "What exactly is the difference?" I
asked.
    "Erotica has better-quality paper. Finally,
this incident in the Khyber Pass has depressed me greatly." He
referred, of course, to the then-recent massacre of the British
army in Afghanistan.
    "Well," I said, "at least after this no one
will attempt to conquer Afghanistan again."
    "Indeed. In any case, I have made an
appointment for us to visit the inventor, Mr Vernon Wells."
    "The developer of steampunk?" I asked.
    "The same."
    Mr Wells had been, under the stage-name
Spinning Johnny, the leader of the musical group the Sex Pistons.
His Monarchy in the UK had been the talk of London,
eclipsing even the popular soprano Lady Stephanie of Gagashire.
Critics had described his long-playing record Never Mind the
Balkans Here's The British Empire as "shamelessly sycophantic
towards the wealthy and privileged" and "full of pea-brained
jingoism". But despite their praise it had failed, and he now
concentrated on scientific invention.
    Mr Wells had no servants, having selflessly
donated them for scientific research, and so answered the door
himself. I found my way blocked by a small pig.
    "Lol! Soz!" said Mr Wells, pushing the pig
out of the way. He was unfortunately given to
'telegraph-speak'.
    "Good evening Wells. What news from the
frontiers of science?" asked my friend.
    "Great things! We are on the verge of
producing a food made entirely from effluent and industrial waste!"
he replied.
    "Remarkable! How soon?"
    "Very close, sir. Indeed my colleague Mister
McDonald intends to open his first restaurant this year. But no
doubt you have come about this terrible murder?"
    "Quite so," said I.
    "I have just the thing! Right...get away you
stupid pigs...here." Wells held up a thing of wood and brass. It
was about the size of a small dog, but looked much like an
oversized spider. "This device," said he "is my Search Engine. I
enter a code, signifying the thing I desire found, into the device.
When I wind it up, the Engine