by Karl Fish
‘Hello, Gemima,’ Aggie said to the much smaller girl.
As they descended the cobbled gradient from The Keep to the Steep, it was abundantly clear that the village of Ambledown had much more life in it as people went about their weekday business than the peacefulness of a Sunday after service. Although the Poacher had no doubt had a brisk and eventful Sunday, much in line with Aggie’s recent misadventure, the rest of Ambledown were unlikely to have any idea what had transpired on the previous evening. Aggie was still sceptical of the village and glanced over her shoulders every few yards.
‘Don’t worry,’ Elizabeth reassured her. ‘Lyle has been taken care of.’
Aggie managed a superficial smile. Elizabeth must have the full confidence of her uncle if she was her lead escort and he had told her of last night’s incident.
‘To be honest, Aggie. Lyle is the least of your worries,’ Elizabeth advised.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Aggie responded nervously.
‘You’re yet to meet the Huntington-Smythes. They make Lyle look like the wretched pickpocket he really is.’ Elizabeth laughed humorously.
‘I don’t really understand. Why should I worry about them?’ Aggie responded, this time less agitated and more intrigued.
‘They’re the true monsters of Ambledown,’ Elizabeth concluded.
‘They’re yuk!’ Gemima piped in.
‘But don’t worry, Aggie, you can decide for yourself now.’ Elizabeth smiled.
They had stopped south of the Steep, past the Poacher, past Le Chat Noir and where the river ambled under a large stone bridge. In front of them was a gleaming white colonial manor house. It was so out of place amongst the scattered two-up two-down fisherman cottages it was almost as if it had been newly built overnight and from an entirely different country altogether.
‘Voila, Aggie,’ Elizabeth announced. ‘The Schoolhouse, formerly the Bailiffs-court of the Huntington-Smythes.’
Aggie said nothing. Preferring instead to follow the girls up the stone stairs just as Eric pipped them to the post and rushed in before them.
‘Prepare yourself for anything, Aggie. Never trust a Huntington-Smythe,’ Elizabeth forewarned her.
Aggie just gulped. The first time attending a real school, and before her first lesson being warned of the terrible enemies to expect inside.
The schoolhouse still had black iron railings accompanying the stone stairs leading to its impressive oak door. Aggie thought all of those had been taken down to smelt in order to form munitions. Obviously not in Ambledown. They offered a frosty chill as she made her way up the stairs closely following the Peabody clan.
On entering the recently converted courthouse, she felt warmth from the heat inside, much to her surprise. She had sensed a level of trepidation and frostiness and expected the large building to be old. However, the entrance hall was floored with varnished mahogany and a large Aspidistra dominated the table at the centre of it.
Two corridors ran opposing routes left and right from behind the table and it’s natural curve split the directions of boys and girls. Each entranceway to the corridors was manned with either one of the ‘Sisters’ from the local convent, in full wimple and shroud, they educated the girls; or a ‘brother’ from the Priory, fully cloaked in Cossack from head to toe, and they taught the boys.
‘Surname?’ directed the sister on duty towards Agatha.
‘Umm Chatsmore,’ Agatha responded, slightly delayed but no more nervous than any other new evacuee.
‘And your first?’ the Sister continued.
‘Agatha. But I prefer Aggie.’
‘Well, Miss Agatha Chatsmore, you are not on the register.’
‘That’s because she was only evacuated this weekend,’ interrupted Eric from the boys’ line before a swift hand from the duty brother clipped the back of his ear.
‘Nevertheless. You must see the governess before entering class. We require only healthy children to attend,’ the Nun finished and led her down the girls’ corridor to a small waiting room.
Aggie frowned back at Elizabeth, who shrugged her shoulders. The room was relatively bare. It smelt of iodine and had the sterile chill of a tiny doctor’s clinic. Two green plastic chairs faced each other in the centre but nothing else. There was a small window, no more then a letterbox-sized intersection honed from the wall. It allowed Aggie a glimmer of outside light while she sat and waited nervously.
Chapter 20
Crossroads
The stench of human effluence after a long night within the underground was enough to deter even the hardiest of vermin. Nathaniel Noone had lost many parts of his human make up but his sense of smell was not one of them. In fact, he often felt it over-compensated for his damaged ears and eyelids. He baulked at the smell as he descended to catch the Tube back to Piccadilly. Now, after the commotion of Draper’s disappearance, he wanted to revisit the area again. But first, he needed an expert’s assistance.
As he sat there, gently rocking to the roll and camber, the darkness and intermittent light jogged his memory to the photograph of Draper and the mysterious markings under the violet light. The train journey several nights earlier and the ancient chambers beneath Giza flashed images into his mind as the lights of the Tube stations hurried by. Whatever or whoever was at the heart of all of this, he was convinced it linked back to the tragedies of Cairo, fourteen years past. However, only one person might believe him. The majority would not. He was determined to uncover the truth.
Noone was a man who slept little nowadays but the exuberances of the past seventy-two hours had exhausted him. He rested his eyes and gazed into the dark shadows. As darkness encroached on his dreams, candlelight and flame lit up stone corridors. Masked men, cloaked in robes, danced in circles of fire. The fire grew and flames burned stronger until he bolted upright from his temporary slumber. A bead of sweat announced itself on his brow. His moans had attracted interest from strangers who discreetly stared between fingers and over papers upon the grotesque within their carriage. Moving along carriages, he finally found the darker confines of solitude. He was happiest in the shadows.
Figures in the darkness watched with intent as he dozed off once more into a nightmarish sleep.
*****
A stretched yawn welcomed Professor Malcolm back into the spanking new laboratory at the Silvera Institute. He had slept well but once he had fully come round, a form of selective amnesia would not allow him to remember everything from the past few days. He could recall the room itself and the excellent facilities bestowed upon him. He could also recall the influence that the violet beam had over the scorpions and their would-be Scarabidae prey. It was astonishing and still extremely worrying. He remembered the papyrus puzzle and the accommodating Mr Louds. He also remembered he had an important part to play in helping Louds and the elusive Dr Mialora.
The person who he failed to recall was the Amazonian figure who had initiated his journey and influenced his decision the prior evening. Sabine Erket had been kind enough to leave him a timely reminder, but it was unlikely he would join the dots.
On the table where he had spent the prior evening studying the amber-glossed papyrus, three new items were left to assist him. The first was the pencil-thin torch that Mr Louds had used to demonstrate the influencing beam of light on the arachnid subjects. The second was a small marble pestle and mortar, which had a selection of crushed, dried leaves within it. The third and final item was the large crystallised piece of glass. Inside sat the deep-red fossilised remains of the large Scarlet Scarab. For a brief moment, a definitive image of the Scarab glowing as hot as fire burned brightly in his mind. The supercharged filament throbbing, pulsating. Then the image was gone. It was dreamlike, almost like sleepwalking, the item prompted the recollection, which his mind wasn’t fully in control of.
Grabbing the torch, he focused the violet beam onto the Scarab, but it did not react. No ignition or spark of red light as he expected. He tried several times, each with the same result, before s
etting the fossilised rock back down.
‘Well, that didn’t work, Meredith,’ he scolded himself, scratching his head. ‘Perhaps you should focus on something you know,’ he chastised himself politely.
Removing the pestle from the mortar he dispensed of the grinding tool so he could examine the leaves. Most people would have ground the leaves straight away but he did not fully understand their purpose so, if he could identify them first, it may aid with their part of the puzzle.
The sun shone brightly through the pinnacle prism above as Meticulous Meredith Malcolm began flicking through Culpepper’s weighty tome of illustrated fauna. He was certain these leaves were not of any local species. As the beams of the rare British sunshine illuminated the laboratory it spread across gilded surfaces, absorbing into those that could be penetrated, illuminating the darkest corners.
*****
In his rarely occupied office, Major Boyd Collingdale discarded the paper bureaucracy that so often littered his in-tray and searched amongst ledgers for the Next of Kin portfolio. The leather-bound booklet, alphabetically documented by surname, weighed heavy in his hands. As he turned the pages to ‘M’, his thoughts turned to the fact that all the hours bickering and verbal butting with the Professor may have been better served finding common ground. It was too late now and soon he would be on his way to deliver the devastating news to Malcolm’s spouse.
Malcolm, Meredith (Prof) – read the title in the ledger. Following his finger across the page, the Major passed over the Professor’s address and to the ‘Marital Status’ column. ‘Single, unmarried’ it read. Collingdale squinted at the page. He then started over and re-ran finger form west to east. Single, unmarried, came the same answer.
‘I say, you!’ Collingdale shouted out at an unsuspecting actuary who was passing by. Thrusting the ledger forward, the Major barked his orders, ‘Can you tell me Professor Malcolm’s marital status?’
The actuary took the ledger and repeated the process the Major had already undertaken.
‘It’s single, unmarried, sir,’ came the response.
‘And when was this last updated?’ Collingdale asked once more.
‘There’s a monthly census on personal details, sir. No more then three or four weeks, I would say.’
‘Very well, carry on,’ Collingdale concluded, which was almost as much as a thank you from the military man.
‘Curiouser and Curiouser,’ he mumbled to himself stroking his moustache.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ came a voice back, causing the Major to jump.
It was the short actuary he had sent off to examine the letter and envelope earlier.
‘Don’t people knock anymore?’ the Major shouted back, still musing on Professor Malcolm’s marital status.
‘Sorry, sir. I just thought you would be interested in this. I believe I have located Doctor G. Belch.’
‘Already? That’s quick work,’ Collingdale responded positively.
‘Quite the coincidence, sir, in fact.’
‘How so?’ questioned the Major.
‘Well, the nature of the letter suggested he knew the Professor or at least had an understanding of him.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Collingdale interrupted.
‘So, I checked the register of incoming correspondence and any donations made to the Museum.’
‘Yes, and…?’ Collingdale replied already impatient.
‘It seems a Doctor Gideon Belchambers donated a giraffe’s head to the Museum only recently. Dr G Belch…you see?’
‘Bit of a leap, isn’t it?’ the Major questioned.
‘I would agree, sir, if I hadn’t spotted this,’ the actuary replied, holding the envelope to the light. Where the fold of the envelope had been gummed to the underside, he raised the paper flap. The light pierced a watermark only just visible to the naked eye.
The Crown Inn, Coaching House, Ambledown, Sussex.
‘Dr Gideon Belchambers, Ambledown, Sussex. Sir, that’s what the register of donations reads.’
‘More than a coincidence indeed,’ Collingdale agreed. ‘Get him on the wire,’ he then ordered.
‘I’m afraid neither the doctor or the inn are contactable, sir. I’ve tried several times already.’
‘Sussex, you say?’ the Major asked.
‘Just over an hour or so by car, sir.’
‘Very well. With me then.’ Collingdale donned his peaked cap, placed The Peacekeeper under his right arm and began his quick march to Entomology. ‘Now, listen up!’ he boomed to all the workers who were busily shoring up the joists and beams of Professors Malcolm’s beloved department. ‘You have four hours until my return and by then, this area must be safe. Electrical lighting must be available to illuminate the area but do not touch or move the corpse you will inevitably make an acquaintance with soon enough.’ Then, with an about-turn and stomp of his right foot, he marched down the corridors of the Museum to commandeer a vehicle. ‘With me, soldier,’ he shouted at the actuary.
‘I’m not a soldier, sir. I’m a clerk.’
Collingdale rolled his eyes and strode forward.
Chapter 21
Priory Colours
Aggie had waited almost half an hour and exhausted all avenues exploring the small cupboard-like room with the two opposing green plastic chairs. The letterbox window offered nothing more than a grubby, oblique, view of the sky. Finally, the door swung open and in came an older gentleman, half-moon glasses, balding and with a stethoscope around his neck. He looked slightly dishevelled and smelt of a previous night’s indulgence of alcohol.
Accompanying him was a much younger woman, in her early twenties; at least that was Aggie’s estimation. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun and round spectacles rested across her lightly freckled nose. She was dressed in a high-collared white blouse and ankle-length black dress. Not dissimilar to Florrie’s daily attire – ‘Victorian governess’ style as Aggie nicknamed it. Her welcoming smile was the opposite of the nasal grunts from the older man.
‘Good morning, my dear,’ she said brightly. ‘I am Miss Dove, Priory governess and this is Dr Beckworth.’
The doctor was coughing and spluttering so much he was more likely to infect his patients than do any good. Aggie recognised him as one of the ruddy-faced barflies from the Poacher the previous evening. Miss Dove seemed far too young for a governess. She had always imagined them as gnarly old spinsters, battle-axes, matron types. Having not attended a ‘real’ school, perhaps they were different. Miss Dove had a perkiness to her, a certain warmth, that Aggie felt she could trust. Not as she had imagined at all.
‘Dr Beckworth just needs to check you over for any sign of illness. I’ll stay with you for the examination,’ Miss Dove explained.
The doctor hocked an ale-smothering breath on his stethoscope before proceeding. The chill of the metal made Aggie flinch.
‘Breathe in,’ he spluttered. ‘Breathe out,’ he spluttered again, and then repeated. ‘Chest is fine,’ Dr Beckworth announced. Turning Aggie around, he repeated the process on her back. ‘Lungs seem fine too.’ He coughed and wheezed. ‘But what’s this bruising?’ he asked, pushing his glasses fully onto his nose to focus. ‘Have you been beaten, young lady? Suffered a fall maybe?’ he enquired.
‘Pardon? No!’ Aggie responded with incredulity. Although she had seen her fair share of conflict within the past few days, she couldn’t remember anything specific in reference to her back and was not going to divulge how she came to be there.
Miss Dove’s curiosity peaked. She stood behind the doctor who was examining between her shoulder blades.
‘I don’t think that’s bruising, Doctor,’ Miss Dove expressed. ‘I believe it’s a birthmark.’
‘I didn’t know that I had a birthmark!’ Aggie said, surprised.
‘Just here, between the shoulder blades, a small purple crescent. Like a smile,’ Miss Dove explained, running her finger along it.
It was not a pronounced mark, nothing like a mole, and even if it ha
d been, the position between shoulders is too awkward to easily run a finger over. It was practically impossible to see in a mirror unless you had an owl’s neck to rotate almost one hundred and eighty degrees. No wonder Aggie was unaware. Florrie had never mentioned it either.
‘I never knew,’ Aggie concluded. One more question for Uncle Gideon, she thought.
‘OK, Dr Beckworth. I assume that’s a clean bill of health?’ Miss Dove ushered.
The doctor nodded as he finally directed his splutter into a handkerchief.
‘Agatha, you can follow me to class. Doctor, thank you for your assistance,’ advised Miss Dove, politely directing him out.
As Aggie and her new teacher saw the doctor to the Aspidistra in the entrance lobby, an elderly home guard hobbled into the doorway.
‘Dr Beckworth, you are needed down at Braggan Brook. There’s a body been found.’ The man wheezed, short of breath.
Aggie looked nervously at Miss Dove, all memory of her near-miss the previous evening flooding back to her. The colour drained from her face.
‘Are you OK, Agatha? You look most peculiar,’ Miss Dove enquired
‘I’ve come over a little strange, Miss.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea before I introduce you to the class?’
‘Yes, please.’ Aggie nodded and followed Miss Dove to her quarters.
‘Do you take sugar, Agatha?’ asked the accommodating Miss Dove.
‘Two, please.’
‘What is it, dear? Did you hear the gentleman mention a body?’
‘Yes, sort of,’ Aggie nervously replied.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing to concern yourself with. The brook runs into the River Amble and it’s estuarial,’ Miss Dove reassured her.
Aggie wasn’t really sure what that meant and gave a perplexed look back.
‘It means the tides drive the waters up and down. All sorts of items get washed up into Ambledown. That’s why the smugglers used to love it. Last year, an unexploded bomb made its way all the way up. Imagine the palaver that caused at the time,’ said Miss Dove as she finished with a smile.
