the orchid accepted with delight. The smell, which had so far been confined to the conservatory, began to creep into the house….
And there, concluded Harry Purvis, as he brought this improbable narrative to a close, the matter rests—to the satisfaction of two, at any rate, of the parties concerned. The orchid is happy, and Aunt Henrietta has something (query, someone?) else to dominate. From time to time the creature has a nervous breakdown when a mouse gets loose in the conservatory, and she rushes to console it.
As for Hercules, there is no chance that he will ever give any more trouble to either of them. He seems to have sunk into a kind of vegetable sloth: indeed, said Harry thoughtfully, every day he becomes more and more like an orchid himself.
The harmless variety, of course….
Moving Spirit
First published in Tales from the White Hart
In this tale from the White Hart, Harry Purvis introduces us to a ‘genuine mad scientist’ living in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, which is coincidentally where ‘Charles Willis’—or should I say Arthur C. Clarke—spent part of his wartime service.
We were discussing a sensational trial at the Old Bailey when Harry Purvis, whose talent for twisting the conversation to his own ends is really unbelievable, remarked casually: ‘I was once an expert witness in a rather interesting case.’
‘Only a witness ?’ said Drew, as he deftly filled two glasses of Bass at once.
‘Yes—but it was a rather close thing. It was in the early part of the war, about the time we were expecting the invasion. That’s why you never heard about it at the time.’
‘What makes you assume,’ said Charles Willis suspiciously, ‘that we never did hear of it?’
It was one of the few times I’d ever seen Harry caught trying to cover up his tracks. ‘ Qui s’excuse s’accuse ,’ I thought to myself, and waited to see what evading action he’d take.
‘It was such a peculiar case,’ he replied with dignity, ‘that I’m sure you’d have reminded me of it if you ever saw the reports. My name was featured quite prominently. It all happened in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, and it concerned the best example of that rare species, the genuine mad scientist, that I’ve ever met.’
Perhaps that wasn’t really a fair description, Purvis amended hastily. Homer Ferguson was eccentric and had little foibles like keeping a pet boa constrictor to catch the mice, and never wearing shoes around the house. But he was so rich that no one noticed things like this.
Homer was also a competent scientist. Many years ago he had graduated from Edinburgh University, but having plenty of money he had never done a stroke of real work in his life. Instead, he pottered round the old vicarage he’d bought not far from Newquay and amused himself building gadgets. In the last forty years he’d invented television, ball-point pens, jet propulsion, and a few other trifles. However, as he had never bothered to take out any patents, other people had got the credit. This didn’t worry him in the least, as he was of a singularly generous disposition, except with money.
It seemed that, in some complicated way, Purvis was one of his few living relatives. Consequently when Harry received a telegram one day requesting his assistance at once, he knew better than to refuse. No one knew exactly how much money Homer had or what he intended to do with it. Harry thought he had as good a chance as anyone, and he didn’t intend to jeopardise it. At some inconvenience he made the journey down to Cornwall and turned up at the Vicarage.
He saw what was wrong as soon as he entered the grounds. Uncle Homer (he wasn’t really an uncle, but he’d been called that as long as Harry could remember) had a shed beside the main building which he used for his experiments. That shed was now minus roof and windows, and a sickly odour hovered around it. There had obviously been an explosion, and Harry wondered, in a
And there, concluded Harry Purvis, as he brought this improbable narrative to a close, the matter rests—to the satisfaction of two, at any rate, of the parties concerned. The orchid is happy, and Aunt Henrietta has something (query, someone?) else to dominate. From time to time the creature has a nervous breakdown when a mouse gets loose in the conservatory, and she rushes to console it.
As for Hercules, there is no chance that he will ever give any more trouble to either of them. He seems to have sunk into a kind of vegetable sloth: indeed, said Harry thoughtfully, every day he becomes more and more like an orchid himself.
The harmless variety, of course….
Moving Spirit
First published in Tales from the White Hart
In this tale from the White Hart, Harry Purvis introduces us to a ‘genuine mad scientist’ living in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, which is coincidentally where ‘Charles Willis’—or should I say Arthur C. Clarke—spent part of his wartime service.
We were discussing a sensational trial at the Old Bailey when Harry Purvis, whose talent for twisting the conversation to his own ends is really unbelievable, remarked casually: ‘I was once an expert witness in a rather interesting case.’
‘Only a witness ?’ said Drew, as he deftly filled two glasses of Bass at once.
‘Yes—but it was a rather close thing. It was in the early part of the war, about the time we were expecting the invasion. That’s why you never heard about it at the time.’
‘What makes you assume,’ said Charles Willis suspiciously, ‘that we never did hear of it?’
It was one of the few times I’d ever seen Harry caught trying to cover up his tracks. ‘ Qui s’excuse s’accuse ,’ I thought to myself, and waited to see what evading action he’d take.
‘It was such a peculiar case,’ he replied with dignity, ‘that I’m sure you’d have reminded me of it if you ever saw the reports. My name was featured quite prominently. It all happened in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, and it concerned the best example of that rare species, the genuine mad scientist, that I’ve ever met.’
Perhaps that wasn’t really a fair description, Purvis amended hastily. Homer Ferguson was eccentric and had little foibles like keeping a pet boa constrictor to catch the mice, and never wearing shoes around the house. But he was so rich that no one noticed things like this.
Homer was also a competent scientist. Many years ago he had graduated from Edinburgh University, but having plenty of money he had never done a stroke of real work in his life. Instead, he pottered round the old vicarage he’d bought not far from Newquay and amused himself building gadgets. In the last forty years he’d invented television, ball-point pens, jet propulsion, and a few other trifles. However, as he had never bothered to take out any patents, other people had got the credit. This didn’t worry him in the least, as he was of a singularly generous disposition, except with money.
It seemed that, in some complicated way, Purvis was one of his few living relatives. Consequently when Harry received a telegram one day requesting his assistance at once, he knew better than to refuse. No one knew exactly how much money Homer had or what he intended to do with it. Harry thought he had as good a chance as anyone, and he didn’t intend to jeopardise it. At some inconvenience he made the journey down to Cornwall and turned up at the Vicarage.
He saw what was wrong as soon as he entered the grounds. Uncle Homer (he wasn’t really an uncle, but he’d been called that as long as Harry could remember) had a shed beside the main building which he used for his experiments. That shed was now minus roof and windows, and a sickly odour hovered around it. There had obviously been an explosion, and Harry wondered, in a
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