the one
eye.
'Yourn? Handsome! Do they scrap?'
We
hurried away with the laughter of the Growler and the assurances of Pilgrim
rattling our ears, and with some relief reached the quiet and stillness of the
Aquarium.
It
was not time yet to fling open its great doors. The hallway was dark; noises
from upstairs signalled that Alf Pikemartin was opening up the shutters in the
salons and sweeping the floors, so we hiked up the grand staircase, past the
execution chamber and the display of hangman Calcraft's rope and bag, and the
Happy Family - cats, mice and birds, all stuffed and nicely mounted in their
box - to the second floor. My canine friends, of course, required no bidding,
and went ahead of me to their work. Each morning we follow the same order,
Brutus and Nero going up to our salon - a name which dignifies what is really a
small space, partitioned off, in a much larger room - where Brutus will open
the large door (one of his tricks) and Nero will lead the way down the central
aisle to our platform, which has been closed off by a screen for the evening
and which I remove to the back wall every morning. We retire behind this screen
between exhibitions and keep our few 'properties' there, and a little stove. In
front of it there is a small platform, approached by four steps, which sets us
up just high enough for the spectators at the back to see our show. It is a
simple affair.
After
our early start and the business with Pilgrim, I was looking forward to
dropping anchor behind the screen and enjoying a hot, sweet brew (in a clean
cup) and perhaps forty winks, but - here was a strange thing - climbing the
last few steps, I found Brutus and Nero not disappeared into our salon, but
waiting on the landing, where the cabinet of waxen eyes was displayed. (Every
morning I wished that Mr Abrahams would put them somewhere else, for it was
unnerving to have them staring out so naturally from that dim corner.) The
door to our salon was open, and Nero was growling his low warning grumble,
while Brutus stood quite still, sniffing the air. It was quiet on the landing,
only a fly buzzed in the dusty window, but it was as clear to me as it was to
my dogs that something was amiss. If it had been dark or getting towards
evening, I would have fetched Pikemartin and together we would have
investigated. (Once before, we were obliged to seek out an intruder, an escaped
convict, who we discovered hiding behind a sarcophagus and who, in his struggle
to retain his liberty, gave Pikemartin a sore head with a blow from an ancient
cooking pot.) But it was scarcely eleven o'clock in the morning, the public
were not admitted, and I could not believe that footpads and desperate
criminals were abroad so early. So I followed Nero into the large room, with
Brutus at my side and an assegai in my hand for protection.
There
was light enough to see the cases of insects, the display of shields and swords
from a Welsh castle, the grand termites' nest and part of the trunk of a giant
tree discovered in the New World and brought back by a relative of Mr Darwin. I
touched Nero's back and he went about his business, and with his nose to the
floor, sniffed and snuffled in every corner and then stopped and looked back at
me with a puzzled expression. It was as if he was saying, 'I don't understand,
Bob. I could have sworn someone was here.'
Certainly
there was no one about, for we peered behind every cabinet and inspected every
jar and pot, and threw open the shutters wide, the better to inspect the darker
corners. But no, there were only spiders and dust and that feeling, hanging in
the air, that someone had been there who was not
long gone. If we had straightaway gone out onto the back landing, I think we
might have spied someone on the stairs, and certainly we heard footsteps
upstairs in the menagerie, but there are always strange noises coming from up
there.
I
have my own ways and like everything ship-shape. I like order and to be able to
lay my hands upon