The Murder Game - A Prince Florizel adventure
Prince Florizel’s remarkable facility with disguise, which is well known, was also of necessity undetectable. Many avid followers of the flamboyant Bohemian’s whimsical forays into adventure had speculated on the appearance and manner of these disguises, often to the Prince’s own amusement as he read the letters in the Sunday papers. But it was the source and maintenance of these disguises that, by their very nature, invited the most speculation - since they were of course the most secret.
The Prince himself had long adopted the rather obvious practise of frequenting a number of different costume establishments, the choice of which was most often given to Colonel Geraldin who amused himself by pulling names from a hat. However, even in a metropolis the size of London, the number of really worthy professionals was small - and so the Prince was known to visit some places more than once. This of course was done incognito using the best of those disguises Florizel soon hoped to supersede or improve. He kept a variety of aliases and not even the remarkable shop of Mr Argyle on Gimbol Street was aware of the deception.
Mr Argyle’s shop was remarkable in several ways. Firstly he accorded his customers a particular scrutiny found elsewhere only in the best tailors of Saville Row and the worst pickpockets of Deptford. He could indeed size a man up and fully, almost in an instant. Florizel of course flattered himself with the knowledge that his disguise had fooled even such a man as this.
Argyle flattered himself in much the same way.
The other very individual quirks of the shop may be briefly described, they were thus; That such an ornate shop was hidden behind an unprepossessing façade of tawny jackets and last season’s hats (available for rent in perpetuity it would seem), that Mr Argyle would accord his customers time and rapport more in keeping with a select Barber’s shop and that at 3.30 precisely the rehearsing choristers of St Francis chapel could be heard distinctly as they commenced their orisons.
St Francis’s itself was in fact some distance away across those treacherous warrens that stretched from Gimbol street towards Soho. But the choir practised in the small school tucked almost directly behind Argyle’s place of business.
It was a soothing and inspiring addition to anyone’s experience of shopping there and was, more than likely thought Argyle, the reason why his current client had visited three times in the last month alone, that customer sat now in his chair and skimming the gossip sections of the Times whilst Argyle busied himself with tape measures and powder and his assistant dipped a ready quill and opened he ledger.
Presently, and during a lull in the lusty voicings of the choir, the customer looked up from his chair and said with rather an indolent air, “Well I see the Fruschilde - Jones alliance is to be solidified now by matrimony.” He stroked his beard idly as he spoke.
Mr Argyle snorted.
“You do not approve?” enquired the customer.
“Well,” said Mr Argyle choosing his words carefully, “it is not for me to judge - but still as a spectator one cannot help but to have an opinion.”
“True, but still I am curious as to yours. The Baron is known for his stability of temper and the solid foundation of his fortune. Miss Jones despite controversy is clearly a woman of some considerable strength of nerve, if not character.”
Miss Jones had created something a scandal last year when she and A.Mann, that daring sports reporter from The Sketch and specialising in boxing, were indeed revealed to be one and the same.
Mr Argyle looked thoughtful then replied. “It is not the particular character nor indeed exploits of these two individuals that I comment on and - indeed, have writen to The Sketch about - it is the future, what may transpire once this alliance is indeed sanctified. One must look far afield in such matters; future business decisions, politics, children,” the last was said with rather heavy emphasis, “and in that way decide that this match is best avoided.”
The customer in the chair raised an eyebrow. “You sound certain. Do you have some especial information, or foreknowledge?”
The shopkeeper tutted. “No indeed, I would not trust to such things. It is science, science pure and simple.”
Before the customer could ask further questions he was interrupted by the tickle of yet another tape measure, this time on the ears. “Any wig manufacturer or fitter that ignores the ears is a blaggard!” Mr Argyle hissed by way of explanation.
Before he could say further he too was quite suddenly interrupted, this time by a gargantuan sneeze from his assistant, causing Argyle to drop his miniature measure with a curse.
“Bless you,” said the customer keeping his equanimity.
The assistant gurgled a reply.
“There is a box of fresh handkerchiefs in the store!” said Argyle with asperity, “Go and fetch them at once!” The stricken assistant shuffled off towards the back, using a cane to help him do so.
“Rum things colds,” the customer noted with sympathy.
Argyle shook his head. “I have learned a lesson today,” he said, “I will need another assistant. I simply cannot afford to have one sick and on the job. Why, earlier today he was forced to lie down in the solitude of the store room darkness for almost an hour. He has not been the same since.”
“Let us hope it is not the flu.” The customer said politely.
“Hmmph!”
At that moment the unfortunate assistant returned again, resuming his place at the desk and scanning the ledger anew. As he did so he placed two objects to his side, one the aforementioned box of kerchiefs, the other a notable and curious wig.
“Great Heavens man,” Argyle ejaculated, “why on earth have you brought that wretched thing inside?”
The customer affected indifference, turning a page of the newspaper.
The assistant coughed, “You said you need it for repair Sir,” he muttered, each syllable an obvious pain to his vocal chords.
“Not now for goodness sake!”
The customer shuffled the paper. “Oh don’t mind me,” he said breezily, “I am content to sit and listen to the charming choir and I must admit, that item does pique me somewhat, was it in a fire might I ask?”
Mr Argyle narrowed his eyes, twisting the corner of his thin moustache as he did so. “You are very observant,” he said at last.
The customer laughed. “Merely the predictable result of so much time spent idly on the turf. It is my belief that a winning horse cannot be picked by any system but that of thorough observation, even through the doubtful medium of field glasses at times.”
“Ah,” said Argyle, nodding now.
“Perhaps it is like the science you spoke of. Hmm?”
The customer’s interest seemed an affectation - but Argyle warmed to the subject.
“Indeed Sir, to some extent that is the case. Phrenomenology as you may know is the study of the skull and head, the face too.” He waved an arm, “Take my assistant for example, note the low and skulking cast of the head, he will clearly amount to little - it must be said that taking such a man on was simply charity." The abused assistant hung his head shamefacedly.
“And yourself Sir, though clearly of a superior nature are still what one might call, in all honesty, middle-brow.”
The customer laughed at this and did not seem at all put out by the insult.
“And you apply this to the case of the Baron and his fiancé?”
Argyle’s eyes were aflame with the warmth of his favourite subject. “Partially, Sir - partially. There is also the matter of genealogy, locale, race and many other exact measurements. It is after all, science, and science is a fine art!”
The customer nodded, “And through this you can…?”
“Why I can say with absolute certainty what the results of such a union will be.”
“Hmm. And is this a particular case?”
“No indeed, I have applied my method with considerable success several times.” There was however something akin to caution beginning to steal into the enthusiastic features of the shopkeeper. The customer changed the subject.
“But I must say, that wig has suffered singular damage.”
The assistant gave an extraordinary lurch from his stall to stand by the desk, leaning with his stick, and using his free hand to wave the ill-used headpiece with some energy. It was a bright orange wig and large, the damage however had melted some of the fibres and blackened them in a curious streak from right side to top.
Such an object called for explanation. “This is a unique case and fortunately too,” said Argyle, with reluctance at first, before continuing. “There are some clients of mine who like to play a game and in this instance the result was the tragic misfiring of a hand gun.”
The customer jumped to his feet. “But that is tremendously exciting, pray do not keep back the details, they promise to enliven my drab routine enormously! Boredom is the unforeseen price of winning on the horses,” he added a little sadly, “too much free time.”
Argyle considered. “Very well, since you are amenable - and having determined your character well enough from your head - you smile but indeed there is an important link.” The man had turned back to look at his customer directly.
“The game I spoke of has been invented as a direct consequence of my scientific applications - in fact it is quite the logical result.”
The customer nodded, “Pray continue, I am fascinated.”
Argyle looked pleased to expound. “Well Sir, imagine if you can, a select body of individuals, like yourself, bored, with just the size of income to only further that boredom not enough to rectify it. Men whose lot in life is predetermined by those very factors I have outlined to you, predetermined to end in the respectable anonymous oblivion of moderate achievement.”
“I can easily imagine such men would look for stimulation.”
“Not merely that Sir, my science can offer them elevation above their lot in life - they can become more.”
“How so? I am as eager to learn as I am to join their number!”
Argyle placed his hands behind his back, assuming an authoritative air. “Yes, you would make a very suitable candidate, I can see that. “ The customer, in turn, looked pleased.
“Well,” Argyle continued. “What if I could say to you with absolute scientific assurance which men among us were likely to end in perfidy, which Gentleman were to become undoubted rogues and criminals and more, which of them (even the good hearted) were likely to produce offspring as hideous as Genghis Khan or Caligula himself…”
“Why I would seize the chance for action!”
“We meet on a Wednesday night.”
“And I would be allowed to join this honourable group of… future avengers? I would wish to start at once!”
Now it was Argyle’s turn to laugh. “Well, well and perhaps my friend - but not so fast, firstly our activities have been so far prevented from completion by the sad state of our antique firearms and secondly there is the matter of the game itself, for each week a name is drawn at random and matched to a worthy cause, providing both an additional frisson for the players as well as an extra screen against the blunderings of the law; A law that will never understand the greater moral good that drives me and my friends.”
The customer was apparently delighted by this and clapped his hands together, the soft gloves muting the sound however. “I will join at once!” he said “to have the chance to grasp destiny itself in such a fashion! Yes, I am your man!”
Argyle took a step forward, his manner shifting, his bearing becoming almost threatening.
“Aha!” he hissed, “but which man would that be exactly?” he prodded the customer in the chest with a stubby finger, “there is only one man I can name who would be interested in wigs and costumes and the paraphernalia of disguise, as well as waiting to listen to just such a tale as mine and then bring mischief upon it. That man is Prince Florizel - and by all the arts of my science - you are he!”
He pushed the customer again, forcing them back onto their seat.
There was a distinctly chilly pause. Then the customer laughed and with a gleeful sweep of the hand removed both wig and whiskers. The feminine features thus revealed were red with amusement. “I am indeed NOT Prince Florizel,” she said smiling.
Mr Argyle had whitened - but he was a practical man. “George,” he yelled, “we must subdue this woman!” He turned to his assistant for help. His assistant however was not disposed to do anything of the sort and instead choose to point the heavy cane in his hand firmly at Argyle, even whilst removing what was suddenly revealed as his own disguise. “I am Prince Florizel,” he said smoothly. “You have already met my friend Miss Jones.”
Mr Argyle looked as if he might fall fit - but he thrust his hands in his pockets and asked brokenly, “And what will you do now? Disband my friends and whisk us of to prison - we have committed no offense. Perhaps you will take matters into your own hands and…”
“Hush,” said Florizel and fixed the man with a commanding stare. “My good friend Colonel Geraldin tells me that there are gallant soldiers in the far flung reaches of the Empire in dire need of amusement. To this end a worthy band of actors have decided to venture forth and entertain them. They will need a skilled costumier like you. They shall HAVE a skilled costumer by tonight. Agreed? And Miss Jones who of course now has a very definite scoop for The Sketch, will tell them the story tomorrow - and not today.”
Argyle cried out his gratitude and reached out a hand to shake the Prince’s. Florizel deftly avoided the clasp but patted the pitiable creature on the shoulder in his best paternal manner.
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i hope this was fun to read:)