Chapter Nine

All heads turned when I crossed the threshold, affording me a clear look at the other clientele. Unlike them, I have better manners than to stare at strangers. I strode wilfully to the counter - little more than a long table in a corner, separating the patrons from shelves that housed a range of bottles. I felt their eyes on me - the patrons’, not the bottles’ - but, being an Englishman, I did not allow their scrutiny to faze me. Let them stare. Cuthbert’s livery still made me the best-dressed man in the place. It is a source of pride for me to have my valet as the most dapper manservant you might ever behold.

I counted three other patrons. An elderly cove with a long, wispy beard, sans teeth. A pair of farmhands playing cards. An empty keg formed their card table. Behind the bar, a portly fellow who favoured the plaid and denim attire that seemed to be all the rage in these parts.

No one spoke. The barman’s raised eyebrow was my prompt.

“Whisky,” I said with confidence. Even a sorry shack like this would have heard of that restorative elixir.

Wordlessly, he reached for a bottle and pulled out the cork with his crooked teeth. He poured a meagre measure but withheld the greasy glass until I placed a dollar bill on the counter. I tossed back the amber liquid as though it was nothing and enjoyed the burn as its fire coursed down my throat on its way to warm my belly. I nodded to the barkeep for a refill and asked to see the menu.

I found myself surrounded by laughter.

“You French, boy?” said one of the card players.

“Not at all,” I was quick to refute that allegation.

“You British?” said the barman. “Long way from home, ain’t you?”

“Just a bit,” I agreed. “Now about luncheon...”

I was aware that hostility levels had risen. These people couldn’t still be smarting about the War of Independence could they? And didn’t they win that one? Big mistake if you ask me. If anything, they should have their underwear bunched up about that more recent spat, in which they fought against each other. Wouldn’t have happened if they’d remained part of the Empire.

A fourth man stepped from a back room. He was smartly dressed - enough to knock me into second place. His suit was broad-chequered, the breeches tapering to cream-coloured socks. He sported a floppy, flat cap and a pair of goggles hung around his throat.

A motorist!

I recognised the type at once. We are a rare breed. I pined for my dear Bessie, waiting in a shed back in Blighty. Bessie is a Benz, one of the first to tootle the thoroughfares of England. There aren’t many like her around. She can match any horse for speed. And there’s none of that awful shovelling business - although I will admit my roses have fared badly since Bessie came into my life.

I itched to ask the motorist what he drove but he spoke first, mistaking me for a butler.

“You there,” he clapped me on the shoulder. “Carry my bags out to the motor and there’s a nickel in it for you.”

He pulled out his wallet and laid several banknotes on the counter. The barman snatched them up jealously, as though he didn’t trust me. I was about to correct the presumptuous motorist when I heard the unmistakable sound of a rubber-headed horn honking outside like an impatient goose.

Miss Pepper! It had to be her!

The motorist looked stricken. He pulled out a pair of rubber gloves that extended to the elbows.

“That sounds like my Petunia!” He strode toward the exit. Or would have, had I not taken it upon myself to slide one of his suitcases into his path. He was suddenly inverted in mid-air before landing on his shoulder blades on the floor. The impact knocked both wind and swearwords out of him. I darted from the building. There was Miss Pepper behind the wheel of a fine-looking carriage with four large wheels but nary a horse. The internal combustion engine puttered and popped.

“Come on!” she urged. I did not need telling twice. I leapt into the backseat - Miss Pepper pulled away before I was fully installed. I fell over. When I righted myself, I saw the vehicle’s owner burst from the road house and give chase. We were trundling along at quite a lick but he was soon able to catch up. A minute later, he was running alongside us.

“Lady, you better stop right now!” One hand held onto his cap.

“Shan’t!” said Miss Pepper.

I looked back; the bar man and his patrons were standing on the porch, enjoying the spectacle. The motorist held onto the side of his car with one hand and his headwear with the other.

“This is grand theft automobile,” he pointed out. I doubted there was such a crime on the statute books. It was theft; I granted him that. If only I could explain about Cuthbert, I am sure the fellow would understand. I could furnish a promissory note, offering to reimburse him for the use of his vehicle.

He was not to be put off. Miss Pepper swatted at his fingers, removing a hand from the steering wheel to do so. My heart leapt to my throat and I tasted sour whisky making its comeback.

“Hands on the wheel, Miss Pepper!” I admonished her between bounces. “And eyes on the road!”

The fellow was attempting to climb aboard. He cocked a leg over the side and damned near kicked me in the face.

“Look here!” I cried, seizing his foot. The fellow kept coming. A dog appeared from somewhere and decided to join in the fun, running alongside the car and nipping at the man’s other leg.

“Can you not go faster?” I urged Miss Pepper.

She stamped on the accelerator; the owner was almost jolted into the air but he held on doggedly. Meanwhile, at his ankle, the dog held on manfully.

“This is disgraceful!” the man declared, between cries of pain and assorted colourful outbursts.

“Let go!” said Miss Pepper, trying to prise his fingers from the door. The fellow’s foot was writhing in my grasp like a python. I tried to heave it from the car. I suppose I would have made a similar effort, should any blister try to commandeer my Bessie, so I had perfect empathy with the man.

“Perhaps we should stop and talk about this,” I suggested.

Miss Pepper’s remark was lost as bumps in the road surface made her words unintelligible. The man was being brushed by low-hanging branches. His cap was dislodged but the dog was not.

“Get out of my car!” he grunted through gritted teeth. Bouncing on one leg, he was hopping mad!

Neither pothole nor sudden swerve could get him off. I decided instead to help him in. Confused, he resisted at first and gave me a couple of sharp kicks to the breastbone. As Miss Pepper took a corner a little too sharply, he was thrown into the back, bringing the dog with him. He was in the process of putting himself the right way up when we bounced over the crest of a hill and, picking up speed, made our descent.

“The brakes, woman!” the driver cried.

“They ain’t working!” cried Miss Pepper, stamping her foot repeatedly on the pedal.

The man, the dog and I clung together as the air whipped our faces. We were accelerating at an alarming rate. Five miles per hour, ten, fifteen... Surely the human body could not withstand such celerity. I feared we would disintegrate at any second. Oh, I have ridden in trains many a time and oft, but that’s different. You’re not actually out in the open air, exposed to the elements and feeling the brunt of the wind against your face and person.

“Stop! Stop!” the man cried.

The dog whined in terror.

“I can’t!” said Miss Pepper, hunched over the wheel. The countryside flew past. We were nearing the bottom of the incline. In the valley before us, another settlement. We looked likely to collide with the first building we came to. Miss Pepper yanked the steering wheel violently to the left, taking us off the road and across a field. We came to rest in a haystack but not before shoving it several yards across the ground.

The man climbed out first to inspect the damage to his precious vehicle. The dog sprang after him.

“You shall pay for this,” he vowed.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Miss Pepper. “Send me an invoice.”

“You shall give me your name and address,” said the man.

“Unlikely,” said Miss Pepper. She started the engine again. I was amazed. My Bessie has to be cranked by hand before she will show signs of life. This amazing automobile could be operated entirely from the driving seat. I was agog. I longed to ask the fellow all about it and if he would be so kind as to let me have a turn.

That was about as likely as Miss Pepper furnishing her contact details.

She pushed a lever and the car began to move. Backwards! I was thrown forward. I could not believe it was happening. My own Bessie could only ever propel herself in one direction; if I wanted to go backwards, I had to drive in a circle. How I coveted this car!

The man tried to give chase but again the dog hampered his progress, finding his socks irresistible.

“But the brakes!” I reminded her.

“The brakes are fine,” Miss Pepper smirked.

“You were faking!” I was aghast.

“I’m a woman,” she shrugged. “It happens.”

We pootled away. The man and the dog shrank in the distance. We drove through the township and onto the next, where there was a railway station.

“Relax,” said Miss Pepper. “The guy’ll get his car back.”

I sulked. I didn’t want him to get his car back. I wanted to keep it.

Miss Pepper reached into a compartment in the dashboard. Handy for keeping one’s gloves in, I suppose. It was crammed with papers. She rifled through them.

“His name’s Ford,” she read. “Not only will I write him an apology, I shall jot down a few improvements for his machine. Like a roof, for example. I dread to imagine the state of my hair.”

* * *

Miss Pepper was against paying for tickets but I remained firm. The purchase ate into our funds but at least we were not running the risk of being ejected from the train by the conductor. We had a long wait. Neither of us felt disposed to converse. I could have made several insightful observations about the weather but chose to keep them to myself.

In the waiting room, Miss Pepper rummaged around in One-Eyed Helen’s skirt. She pulled out the book, the diary I had borrowed - oh, very well, purloined. I cannot pretend it came from Mr Boots’s lending library.

She pored over the pages. “It’s mainly a list of names and dates,” she reported. “Some places too.”

“Oh?” I decided I’d better show interest. She might miss some detail that could prove pertinent.

“Mexico features quite prominently.”

“That’s where the boys she sold ended up,” I reminded her.

“So, we should go to Mexico.”

“Why?”

“Think about it: if someone’s got the mummy of King Xolotl that’s where they’d take it.”

“Would they?”

“Makes sense to me. Maybe someone wants him returned to his rightful place of eternal rest.”

“Perhaps...” I was noncommittal.

“Or perhaps there’s a more sinister purpose...”

“I don’t follow.”

“Listen: I’m going to suggest something. I don’t want you getting all aereated about it. Hear me out first, right?”

I could feel my colour rising already. “Go on.”

“I say we take a detour. It’s almost in the right direction anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I know somebody. A university professor. He’s an archaeologist. He might be able to tell us more about what we’re dealing with.”

“He knows about Xolotl?”

“Maybe. What do you say?”

I had no alternative to propose. And a university professor sounded like he might actually be of help. He would certainly be better company, however short-lived our visit.

“Agreed,” I said. “Let us meet this professor.”

“Great.” She turned a few more pages. The lists gave way to densely written handwriting. One-Eyed Helen’s scrawl indicated she had something she wished to get off her chest. “Look at this. She’s written about Tommy.”

“Tommy can wait,” I got to my feet. “Our train has come.”