Sebastian Gloom

The Butterfly Collector's Club

     Gloom got the invitation just before sunset. Among the letters and bills in the day's second postal delivery was a small white letter that had the drawing of a bottle in the bottom left hand corner. It was addressed to both Gloom and Benson. Gloom seized upon it with trembling fingers, as if he’d been both wanting it to come and hoping it would never come and couldn't have said himself which one he’d wanted more.

     He cast the other letters aside to be read later and ripped it open. Inside was a short note written in a hurried scrawl. “If you are serious regarding your application for club membership, please come to our usual meeting place tonight.” It was signed Paul Freeman, chairman of the Butterfly Collectors club.

     “Fire up the wheelchair,” said Gloom with a tremor in his voice, and then he coughed heavily, holding his handkerchief to his mouth. He thrust it quickly back into his pocket before Benson could see the blood. Benson frowned, but Gloom gave him a meaningful look and the manservant went off to comply. Thirty minutes later Gloom was driving down the street in the steam wheelchair, Benson walking beside him, in the direction of the Museum of Science and Industry.

     “Some people with your precarious health and with your considerable wealth might be tempted to retire and enjoy their remaining years in comfort,” he said as pedestrians stood aside for their passage.

     “Some might,” agreed Gloom. “If they were able to ignore the monumental injustices of the world. My conscience drives me to do this, my friend. If there is something I can do, no matter how small and hopeless, then I must do it. I've known you long enough to know that you feel the same way, but even so you do not have to...”

     “Yes, I do,” interrupted Benson, “And I do not have poor health to use as an excuse. Time and again during the time of our acquaintance there have been things that have needed doing but that your handicaps have prevented you from doing for yourself. I have been glad and honoured to do these things for you. That is not going to stop now.”

     “My friend, if we both end up in Hell, it won't be so bad if I have you there with me. Indeed, I would prefer that than to be in paradise without you.”

     “I feel the same. If that letter had not come, though, you would have had the perfect excuse to retire from your activities and forget the whole matter.”

     “If the letter had not come I would have devoted all my time and resources to tracking down this Paul Freeman and persuading him to accept me. And if he had not I would have started a movement of my own to do what I think he is doing.”

    Benson nodded. “I just wanted to make absolutely sure that... That...”

     “Rest assured, my friend. This is the proper path for us.”

     They arrived at the Museum just after it had closed, but once again the curator let them in. “You spend a lot of time here for a man who owns a museum of his own,” he joked as he unlocked and opened the door for them. “Perhaps yours is too small and you want to move into a bigger one.”

     “I'm shopping around,” replied Gloom with a smile. “It’s either this one or the cheese museum in Thistledown Street, and that place is full of mice.” Another fit of coughing took him and he had to reach for his handkerchief again.

     “Terrible thing, the consumption,” said one of the cleaners, pushing a mop and bucket across the floor. “My cousin Jenny used to have it...”

     “That will be enough, Doris,” warned the curator. The cleaner bent her head back to her work and carried on mopping.

     “It's all right,” said Gloom, though. “She's right, it is a terrible thing, but plenty of people survive it and I have hopes of being one of them.”