An enormous bare-chested man guards the entrance. He must be the size of a tree.
“Good evening, Mr Cobweb,” he says, tipping his hat.
Mr Cobweb nods. “I have some guests with me this evening.”
“Very good, sir,” and he lets us through. I am hoping no one notices Mr Cobweb has only one arm. We left it in the Dancing Imp Theatre, lying on the floor.
We enter a long candlelit corridor and begin to descend a series of winding stairs which spirals far into the earth, under the Thames. On the walls, a series of tiny blue butterflies dance and shimmer in spirals. I can hear faint music and chanting deep beneath us.
“You do understand,” says Mr Cobweb, “when they realise who you both are, they’ll probably eat you alive.”
I slap him round the back of his hooded head. “No one’s eating me tonight. Especially while I’m wearing this stupid robe.”
“I think you look rather fetching, Detective Waxford,” says Boo Boo.
“I can’t take myself seriously wearing this.”
“If you want to blend in, you’ll have to chant,” Mr Cobweb interjects.
I slap him round the back of the head again.
“Suit yourself.”
Further and further down we go. The walls are cold stone, the butterflies are intermingled with bloody hand prints. The chanting becomes louder, the music some sort of hypnotic repetition. And finally we emerge into what I can only describe as an enormous Aztec temple, the size of St Paul’s Cathedral. There must be five hundred hooded robed figures swaying and chanting; a sea of black. At the far end of this bizarre temple, a huge stone altar soaked in blood. And sitting behind, on a throne of human skulls, sits the prime minister, Zedock Heap. Above his head the Angel-Eater, with a pin through its heart. Its wings beat frantically.
“Well bugger me!” I say. “The leader of this demented cult is the prime minister.”
“I thought you would have guessed by now,” says Mr Cobweb, adjusting his hood.
“I have to arrest the British prime minister for running a death cult. I’m never going to get my pension.”
“Probably not.”
“Why the hell is he even involved?”
“He’s a very powerful demon. He eats human hearts; they increase his power.”
“Didn’t Loveheart tell you?” says Boo Boo.
“NO, HE DID NOT TELL ME THE PRIME MINISTER WAS A DEMON. I bloody voted for him!”
“We all did.”
“Why are all these people even here?”
“It’s a bit like the Masons, really,” Mr Cobweb continues happily.
I slap him round the back of the head again. “It’s nothing like the fucking Masons. They don’t kill people and eat body parts!”
“Detective Waxford,” says Boo Boo. “Please can you free the butterfly for me?” and she points to the Angel-Eater.
“I’ll try, sweetheart. I’m in shock at the moment.”
We move to the very back of the temple, near an enormous pillar. Round the walls are huge, weird paintings of the Angel-Eater butterfly, liquorice black-winged, soaring over the ceiling.
And then we hear a scream and a young woman is dragged from the back of the temple and pulled onto the altar and tied down. Zedock Heap rises from his throne, moving towards her, a black dagger in his hands.
There is no time left.
I shoot my pistol at the ceiling. All five hundred hooded figures turn, gazing at me. Zedock Heap raises his head, curious.
“I am Detective Waxford of Scotland Yard and you’re all nicked!”
Boo Boo uncovers her blades and positions herself in front of me. Mr Cobweb creeps aside. And then Zedock Heap, smiling to himself, shouts across the temple.
“COME TO ME,” he says and the walls shake, ooze blood.
I shout back: “Boo Boo, WIPE THE FLOOR WITH THEM!”
Detective White and Constable Walnut infiltrate the Butterfly Club
Walnut and I have just returned to Scotland Yard where a note has been pinned to my desk.
Percival,
Butterfly Club under Houses of Parliament. Boo Boo and I already there. QUITE POSSIBLY DEAD. Hurry Up.
Waxford
“Let’s get to it, Walnut!”
“Yes, sir!”
We race outside and hail the nearest cabbie. “Quick as you can. Houses of Parliament.”
“Yes, guv’ner.”
Our carriage races along the streets of London. The moon is full tonight and wicked.
“Eventful day so far,” says Walnut.
I load my pistol. Walnut holds up the hand grenade Mr Loveheart gave him for Christmas, shaped like a potato, a little red heart painted on it.
“Could prove useful,” he says.
The cabbie drops us off and we circle round the back of the Houses of Parliament to where an enormous man stands guarding a small door, obscured from view by the shadows. We approach him.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he says, carefully.
“Open the door. I am Detective Sergeant White and I am investigating a series of murders.”
“No,” he replies coolly.
I take my pistol out. “Earlier today my constable and I were blown up. I’m not in the mood for the word ‘no’ tonight.”