by Karl Fish
‘Lemon, Mr Louds, or at least an extract of citronella!’ The Professor laughed.
A returning blank expression from Brian Louds finally drilled the message home to the invigorated entomologist.
‘Have you tried photographing these glyphs?’ Malcolm asked.
Louds nodded.
‘And on the instant of the flash, the cracking and crumbling took place?’
‘That’s correct. How did you conclude that? Two of the images were lost and the exposure never developed.’ Louds confirmed.
‘Haha! I knew it,’ Malcolm congratulated himself again.
Mr Louds listened on intently.
‘When honey is mixed with lemon and some very basic ingredients, it creates a chemical reaction. The result is a glue-like compound. A bit like tree sap. Given the right conditions, it will set as if it were a varnish.’
‘And so?’ Louds sneered.
‘It can become volatile. If there is too much of the citric acid, in this case, the lemon, it can cause it to splinter and break. Add that exposure to heat or light and it will expedite things. Then boom! Disintegration,’ the Professor explained, crumbling a small amount of dust as he did so.
Mr Louds followed the Professor word for word and understood his very basic lesson in elementary chemistry. It was such a plausible explanation as to why their photograph was a disaster and why several attempts to extract the scrolls’ secrets had ended up in destroying the previous reliefs. The pieces of the puzzle were unravelling.
‘That’s very helpful, Professor, but how does that help us?’
‘Here in learneth the lesson, Mr Louds. I believe your thief made a copy.’
‘More than likely,’ Mr Louds agreed. ‘The problem with a thief is that you are already dealing with someone in a position of distrust. But he’s dead. I still do not follow.’
‘In doing so, sir, he left his mark. Almost a fingerprint to ensnare him.’
Louds was very much confused but nevertheless allowed the Professor to proceed.
‘Let us step into the light, Mr Louds,’ Malcolm advised. Picking up one of the unfurled scrolls.
‘Careful, Professor, you’ve already destroyed enough today. They are centuries old and must be handled with care.’
‘I’ve no doubt the vellum and the parchment are of great historical significance, Mr Louds. But I reserve judgement on the hieroglyphics we see before us!’
Louds stood back, stunned. ‘I had the scrolls corroborated by the world-leading expert,’ Louds confirmed.
‘As I say, the scrolls themselves are no doubt millennia old. But, please, follow me,’ Professor Malcolm insisted, directing him under the light.
The two gentlemen stood under the emitting glare of the prism that had intermittently shone down on them reflecting the inclement British weather.
‘Do you have a knife or scalpel, Mr Louds?’ the Professor asked.
Brian Louds procured a sharp scalpel from a faultless array already on the Professor’s laboratory bench. He suppressed the urge to pass over a bloody one hidden from beneath his clinical scrubs.
‘Be very careful, Professor,’ he urged. ‘I would say at least one of your nine lives was expunged this morning. Be wary not to make that two.’
Taking the scalpel handle presented to him, Professor Meredith Malcolm scored the parchment, which had previously supported the varnished glyph. The one that he had inadvertently destroyed. Gently, with precision, he ran over the initial square with a deeper penetrative cut which released a window of parchment glued to the leather binding of the scroll.’
‘And now, Professor?’ Louds questioned.
‘We look through the window.’ Reversing the outstretched scroll and raising the missing square so that the light shone through it, he peered at the remaining vellum. ‘Eureka!’ he cried out.
‘Show me,’ Louds demanded
And there, just visible, was a perfect negative of an ancient hieroglyphic. It was far more intricate than the basic glyphs presented on the reverse side. Perhaps the thief really hadn’t realised his efforts to dupe Mr Louds and the elusive Dr Mialora would be in vain and the true value of this artefact had finally revealed its secret.
‘Well, well, Professor. You may have just redeemed a full set of nine lives,’ asserted Mr Louds. ‘I must tell the good Dr Mialora,’ Louds said excitedly ‘Continue to discover the secrets from our ancients Professor. Carefully, of course. I shall return in due course.’
‘Of course.’ The Professor nodded, humbly.
Louds was just exiting the room when he returned to his accommodating self. ‘Would you like tea, maybe a cake, as some reward? I’ll order you tea and cake. You British love tea and cake.’
‘I’d prefer something slightly stronger,’ Professor Malcolm asked.
‘Very well, I believe we can celebrate a breakthrough,’ Louds congratulated him.
‘G&T?’ Professor Malcolm replied.
‘Ha, you British and your love of gin too. If you insist. My men will procure you whatever you like.’
Louds left the laboratory instructing the two guards to accommodate the Professor’s requirements.
‘Gin, London Dry if you have it, Indian tonic water, and a cuticle of fresh lemon, please,’ Professor Malcolm insisted.
*****
The darkness of the District Line rewarded Noone with a few precious minutes of sleep before the Temple station flashed and slowed into view. His connecting ride was a short hop on the yellow via The Strand. His preference would have been to stay underground, out of the light, hidden in solitude if he could be. However, the pressing matter of Draper’s likely kidnap remained his focus.
As he alighted from the steel Tube carriage and climbed the already moving escalator, two shadows continued to follow him. Safely at distance, their observations discreetly monitored his every move.
The brightness of a crisp October day caused his remaining eye discomfort as he strode out of Temple station and towards The Strand. On the corner came the familiar tones of a news seller:
‘Standard! Get your Standard!’
That reminded him of Thompson’s passing comments that he must purchase the evening edition for his next instructions. In the meantime, he headed down to the black tunnels of The Strand Tube and onwards towards Russell Square, where he hoped his friend would be able to help him.
With the darkness of dreams came the whirling men spinning fire. Men dressed in costume; men cloaked in secrecy. Hawks and hounds, serpents and crocodiles. Cairo, Giza, the living, the dead. A nightmarish cocktail of images that Nathaniel Noone sought to extract from his mind.
Waking with a cold sweat to the announcement, ‘Russell Square’, he jolted upwards and just managed to trap his arm in the closing doors, they re-opened and he stepped off on to the platform. From behind him, he heard two sets of footsteps alight too. Coincidence that someone else almost missed their stop too? Doubtful, he thought to himself.
Securing his black fedora and raising the collars of his mackintosh, he stepped onto an escalator and allowed the mechanical staircase to elevate him upwards. After thirty seconds, when he could be sure the two sets of footsteps had stopped and were following his path, he turned abruptly and stared at the couple below. He had expected two men in similar dark hat and coats but instead, they were a man and woman intently staring at the Tube map as if they were lost. As he reached the top he stared back again and caught the woman’s eye. She smiled politely and returned to the map. Noone’s scarring usually initiated a minimal flinch in response, even from the politest, this woman hardly acknowledged he was there. Approaching the barrier guard he took an about-turn and swiftly rerouted back down the opposing escalator.
A gust of air announced the next Tube train arriving. Rather than board it immediately, he stood discreetly hidden behind a concrete pillar. As the doors began to shut, the couple rushed onto the train. As it pulled away, he stepped out of his cover and waved them a sarcastic goodbye. Obviously, Thompson hadn’t t
rusted him at all. At least he could respect that.
Noone was pleased to see that the huge pillars to the temple-inspired entrance had held firm despite the relentless barrage of the blitz. Across town, the Museum of Natural History and Science had suffered little in comparison but they shared a common goal to protect and extradite their exhibits to safer surroundings.
The British Museum had withstood the worst of all of the capital’s bombings. It was beyond doubt that it was being purposely targeted by Fuhrer high command, and the surrounding Bloomsbury landscape looked more like furrowed fields of twisted iron and brick rather than their noble historical facades that had stood there long before the Thunder Machines had successfully visited.
Coils of barbed wire created a twenty-yard barrier between the entrance and they looped over five foot high. Security was far tighter here than at its sister museum across town. Several sentries stood guard and patrols were frequent. Having been the subject of Thompson’s tails, his confidence to walk straight in waned. Nevertheless, what was the worst that could happen? Thompson would haul him back to Shaftesbury or wherever The Department was now being deployed. Walking as fast as his limp would allow, he approached the guarding sentry. As always, his melted face, eye patch, and intense lidless stare sent shivers down the spine of the onlooker.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ the guard asked nervously.
‘I’m here to see Soames. Nathaniel Noone to see Soames,’ Noone rasped.
‘Professor Soames, sir?’ the guard responded.
‘Of course,’ Noone replied impatiently.
‘Which one, sir?’
‘There’s more than one?’ Noone questioned.
‘Professor M or Professor–’
‘M. Definitely M. Professor Montague Soames, please,’ Noone interrupted, he didn’t require any other options.
The guard surveyed the list up and down.
‘I’m sorry but Professor Montague Soames is no longer with us,’ the guard replied.
‘Dead?’ Noone asked, shocked.
‘Says he’s recently retired, sir.’
‘What? That’s impossible,’ Noone argued in disagreement.
‘If that will be all, sir, I’d kindly ask you to move along,’ prompted the guard with reference to his rifle.
How could he not of been aware that Monty had recently retired? He’d only seen him months ago. Noone was furious with himself and even more so that he had hit a dead end on the photograph. He limped away slowly. His next course of action to wait for Thompson’s encrypted message and the night final of The Standard.
‘Sir, Mr Noone!’ the guard called out.
‘What is it?’ Noone replied abruptly.
‘I missed it initially, sir, but it says here, next to Professor M. Soames’ guest-list, that anyone by the name of Mr N Noone is to report to the other Professor, I. Soames in M. Soames’ absence.’
‘Let me see that.’ Noone snatched at the guard. ‘Professor I. Soames? What’s that stand for?’
‘Isabelle,’ came a female voice from behind. A voice familiar to Nathaniel Noone but which he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. ‘Though you may have required it to be a B.’
‘Belle?’ Noone turned around; not quite believing it was her.
‘Belle with the bunches – if I recall?’ she responded with a humorous smile.
Nathaniel Noone’s emotions were rarely played out in public, but the smidge of a tear allowed him a subtle embarrassment in front of her.
‘So handsome still, Nate.’ She smiled, kissing him subtly on his scarred face.
‘Always were a bloody good liar.’ Noone laughed.
‘Come on, let’s see Dad,’ she replied, grasping his fingers into hers and drawing him in towards her as they held hands and entered the Museum.
‘He’s here? The guard told me he had retired,’ Noone questioned.
‘Sort of,’ Belle replied. ‘You’ll see.’
Rarely did Nathaniel Noone drop his guard but the sight of Belle, after so many years, the relief Monty was still at the Museum and the fact he may finally have some answers to the photograph he kept in his pocket, allowed him a brief moment of relief. Belle intertwined her fingers tightly into his, childlike, excitedly leading him towards her father’s office.
Chapter 26
Theory
Thompson and Waverley sat in the darkened room. The dim light from the single table lamp accentuated them with gothic facial features. Wink’s chain-smoking did little to help the poor airflow.
‘Let me repeat that back to you to ensure I understand the sequence of events,’ Wink began. ‘You believe this Jennifer James had somehow befriended and duped Draper, leading to this plant being, well, planted – for want of a better phrase.’ she summarised.
‘That’s correct, ma’am,’ Thompson confirmed.
‘Any idea on the length of this deception?’
‘She provided the plant on his birthday. August 31st. Therefore, we should assume since then she has been privy to the inner workings of Draper’s office.’
‘And you believe the information could have been relayed both ways,’ Wink continued with mild agitation.
‘I believe it could have, ma’am.’
‘So, she had more than a passing duplicity. She had control over him too?’
‘We’re still trying to find out. We’re cross-referencing all his communications as we speak.’
‘Let’s assume the worst, shall we?’ Wink affirmed. ‘Sounds like quite the spy, this Ms James. You may have to turn her someday, Thompson, if we ever find her again.’ Wink smiled.
Did he just hear that correctly? Wink had an obvious admiration for the person responsible for his superior’s kidnap. ‘Ma’am, the details of her escape are equally intriguing,’ Thompson continued.
‘Enlighten me,’ Wink encouraged him.
‘First of all, we believe she poisoned our concierge. Not sure how, not sure what with, but he has been left catatonic ever since.’
Wink Waverley rolled her singular eye.
‘Then there was the escape with Draper. We have eyewitnesses that tell us Draper had his pistol trained on her. Then he simply let the round off into the air,’ Thompson explained.
‘That makes the least sense of all. Why didn’t he just shoot her?’ replied Wink.
‘Therein comes the control theory, ma’am.’ Thompson shrugged. They both knew the likely answer was Jennifer James did have the ability to manipulate Draper. He may have considered the crowded streets and the opportunity to kill or maim an innocent passer-by a risk but Draper was a trained soldier himself and it was unlikely that would have stopped him, considering all that was at stake.
‘Seems you have your hands full, Thompson. Anything else before I inform the Executive?’
Thompson thought long and hard about Nathaniel Noone, and the photograph with the symbols, but he couldn’t help but feel the knowledge of Malling’s inclusion was the best-kept secret, for now, at least. But there was one last thing. One single item Smith and Jones had recovered from the scene.
‘There is this, ma’am,’ he advised as he pulled a small white card from his inner pocket. ‘Discovered at the scene and possibly left by Draper as a lead.’
Wink Waverley took the card and placed it under the Bakelite emerald hood of the table lamp. Emblazoned in embossed red type the front read: Official, Society, Improvement, Rehabilitation, Injured, Servicemen. The reverse glinted as it caught the light and as Wink gave it the once-over.
‘Seems like a fundraising society. I do not recognise the coat of arms, possibly Swiss, as let’s face it, its type is in gold. R-A? Royal Academy possibly – no doubt, but it’s not British,’ Wink advised.
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll investigate it too.’
‘Actually, leave it with me,’ Wink replied, encouraging Thompson to hand it over. ‘I’ll have someone help.’
Thompson was curious as to why Wink Waverley would help on this particular item, but as he alread
y had secrets of his own to keep, his boss to find, a spy to catch and Nathaniel Noone to wrangle, he accepted her help, cautiously.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he acknowledged with a courteous nod.
‘Be sure to close the door on your way out, Thompson. Chop, Chop.’ Wink clapped, returning to her relaxed posture in her chair.
He would be sure of that, once he could find the route, amongst the padded burgundy leather walls.
*****
‘Dad, Dad? It’s Belle,’ Belle gently whispered in her father’s ear before placing a loving kiss on his forehead.
Montague Soames remained wheelchair-bound and unresponsive. A tartan blanket was draped across his knees, to keep him warm, as he stared into solitude.
‘You’ll never guess whom I just bumped into?’ she carried on, regardless.
‘Hello, Monty, old friend,’ Noone whispered. ‘What the hell have you been up to, eh?’ Squatting in front of the older man, not even Noone’s monstrous face could stir any response from his former mentor’s dilated pupils. Belle placed a second kiss on her father’s forehead and beckoned Noone away.
‘What happened, Belle?’
‘Doctor’s say a stroke. But he was terribly well, Nathaniel, extremely fit still, for his age.’
‘Any reason to doubt otherwise though, Belle?’
‘Not really,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Sure, he may have had enemies in his time, but he’s an old man and what with the war, no one would focus on him now. He’s just an ageing academic, irrelevant really. He sustained a few minor cuts and bruises from the fall, no reason to raise any suspicions though. They found him in his study, he’d been there all night.’
Nathaniel Noone embraced her as she began to sob.
‘Why were you coming to see him, Nate?’ she asked with her bottom lip still quivering.
‘It doesn’t matter now. It was just business.’
‘I know what kind of business you are in, Nathaniel Noone, don’t forget,’ Belle responded abruptly. ‘Come, I’m the new curator now.’
