by Karl Fish
‘Seriously?’ Noone replied in disbelief.
‘How dare you, Nathaniel Noone,’ Belle hit him with the back of her hand playfully across his chest. ‘As I told you already, I am not that little girl with the bunches from all those years ago. Double first in languages, Oxford. First in modern archaeology, I’m not a freckle-faced teen anymore. Now come on, don’t be shy. Why were you coming to see Dad?’
Noone relented and withdrew the photograph and torches from his pocket.
‘I’m going to require you to dim the lights and draw the blinds, Belle.’
‘Pardon?’ Belle laughed, jokingly.
‘I’m deadly serious,’ Noone replied curtly.
Belle drew the blinds leaving a slender gap from an external window that highlighted the dancing particles of dust they shared their space with. Noone placed the photograph on a desktop and weighted it down in the corners. It was too dark to see the black and white original image in detail. Noone had decided to jump straight to the revelations.
‘OK, show me,’ Belle encouraged.
‘Watch closely,’ Noone advised, shining the violet torch beam onto the photo.
Iridescent shades of purple and blue illuminated the totems and glyphs in front of them.
‘Goodness me,’ Belle exclaimed in excitement. ‘Show me again. Move over the images, but slower this time.’
Noone repeated the process over and over as Belle scribbled rough copies then returned to the window and allowed the light to flood back in.
‘So?’ Noone asked.
‘Very interesting,’ Belle replied. ‘You see this symbol here?’ she said, pointing to the sketch of the dog’s head she had just made. It was the one that covered Draper’s face.
‘Is it Anubis?’ Noone replied.
‘Of course, Anubis. God of the afterlife. Always associated with death. But the fact it is face on suggests that it’s a death mask opposed to a deity.’
‘You’re positive?’ Noone asked nervously.
‘One can never be one hundred per cent sure,’ Belle replied ‘But Anubis as a god is usually portrayed from a sideways angle. Much like the other masks in the photo. They are deities and followers of said deities.’
‘Show me,’ Noone insisted.
‘This one with the spiral is likely to be that of a lesser god.’ Belle pointed to the image covering the lady in the picture. ‘I’m not sure which god. I’d need some time to research older records. I believe her to be considered a consort to the other.’
‘Which other?’ Noone questioned.
‘Umm…this one. The falcon-headed man is a high-ranking deity. In any cartouche, this would explain the presence of greatness, extreme power. The bird represents Horus or even RA. It depends on the chronology, the Egyptian dynasties chopped and changed them over millennia and we are constantly learning. In any case, he’s high ranking. The God of light,’ Belle explained.
‘OK,’ Noone responded, trying to make sense of the markings. ‘And the eyes. I’ve seen them before, daubed on men, doors, and trinkets. What was that you said, followers of some kind?’
‘The all-seeing eye of RA; if on a person, it’s likely to mean they are the workers or followers of that God or master, very common back then. You must recall the many knick-knacks from vendors in Cairo? Used as protective spirits placed above entrances to family homes,’ Belle continued.
Noone resisted the opportunity to discuss his current theory.
‘It’s even been considered that the great pharaohs may have daubed or tattooed their slaves in such markings,’ Belle concluded.
‘Thanks, Belle. You’ve been a great help.’
‘Just let me see that photo again. I’d like to see the mark of the one I could not identify. I’m sure I can, given a moment,’ she said, snatching it from Noone. Belle was just about to draw the blinds again when surveying the photo for the first time in normal light she paused in shock.
‘What is it, Belle? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Noone enquired.
Belle turned to her old friend in shock. ‘I recognise two of the people in this picture,’ She replied.
‘What? Who?’ Nathaniel Noone followed up with a concerned eagerness.
‘This man and this lady; the one that lights up as a hawk and the one I’m yet to confirm. The consort. The gentleman is Commander Malling, for sure.’
‘Malling? I’m not sure who he is. What about the woman?’ Noone probed.
‘She had a peculiar name. I remember Father laughing but not letting anyone else in on the joke. I missed it at the time, as I was late to the conversation. Father didn’t even introduce me, treated me like his secretary. Anyway, she was Swiss I think, her name was … Serena or something like that? They were both part of a fundraiser for injured veterans.’
‘When was this?’ Noone asked
‘I remember it well because it was the evening before they found Father. We thought it might have even been the stress of allowing them to host it in the chamber of Mummification and Egyptology that brought on the stroke. He was so annoyed and agitated that day.’
Nathaniel Noone was staggered at the coincidences. No such thing as coincidences, Monty would have told him, if he could.
‘I need to see your father’s diary,’ he asked.
‘We couldn’t find his diary,’ Belle replied.
’That’s odd?’
‘Not really, Nate, no. I mean look at this place. Organised chaos, Dad called it. You know what he’s like.’
‘I do, Belle,’ Noone agreed, bending and filtering through the many documents scattered over the floor.
Noone couldn’t be sure, as Monty had always been a bit of a hoarder and came across as a complete scatterbrain, but it was all an act as Monty had a photographic memory and knew where everything was. The way the documents were bundled together, fanned out as if someone was looking for something specific, he was sure the room had been tossed. Monty was the best of the best. He had recruited half of them from university. If his old quartermaster had suspected something was afoot he would’ve sent correspondence, for sure.
Think, Nathaniel, think, he told himself. Exhaling deeply in and out of his nose.
‘What about yourself, Belle. Do you keep a diary?’
‘I’m the opposite of Dad. I have a meticulous bent.’
‘Can you show me?’
‘Of course, I can. But you’re worrying me a little, Nate. Should I be concerned?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Noone said trying to reassure her, suspecting the answer was yes, and hoping his wily old mentor lived up to his reputation.
Belle’s office was adjacent to her father’s and only a quarter of the size. For every inch of mess her father’s was, Belle’s study was meticulous in comparison. Orderly, arranged, and no doubt, a reverse product of the chaos that life with her father had etched on her. Belle removed a singular steel key and from a locked drawer inside of a locked cupboard, removed a bound book with a singular crimson elasticated band.
‘My diary, Nate.’ Belle said handing over the tan leather journal.
‘Is that the only key to the cupboard?’ Nathaniel Noone asked as he took the diary.
Belle nodded her acknowledgement.
Looping the band through his index finger to open it at today’s date, he noticed on each side of the pages the indices would allow entries for birthdays with a specific margin line that separated the column from the main body of writing space. Thumbing the pages back to the night of the injured serviceman’s fundraiser he read Belle’s entries out aloud.
‘Anything suspicious, Belle?’ he asked.
‘Nothing obvious to me,’ she replied.
Reading the diary entries over again, he couldn’t fathom any relationship or message he had suspected may have been left for him.
‘Do you really believe Dad’s accident was anything but an accident?’ Belle asked, staring into Noone’s eye.
‘It’s too much of a coincidence that the night after this photograph was taken, your fa
ther suffered a stroke. A week later I am back in London at the request of a mutual friend. He knew something, your father that is, or stumbled across something he shouldn’t have. I’m sure Cairo brings it all together.’
Waiting on a sceptical sigh from Belle, as so often he received from his peers, Noone placed his head in his hands. The criticism did not come. Instead, a comforting hand on his shoulder reassured him. Besides, why were the mysterious markings based on ancient glyphs and symbols?
‘Perhaps he has left us a clue, Nate. Draw the blinds. Give me that torch,’ Belle insisted.
The room darkened as the blinds descended. Belle lit up the torch. There was no writing in the diary space but as she shone the precise beam over the birthday index, a scribbled sentence announced itself in violet.
‘At the centre of end, we redefine the middle’
‘What on earth does that mean?’ Belle asked, turning to Nathaniel.
‘It means your dad’s stroke was definitely not an accident. Our fears are confirmed,’ Noone replied. ‘Whatever this is, whatever it means, your father is key to unlocking the mystery.’
‘At the centre of end, we redefine the middle,’ Belle pondered, circling the room.
‘He did love a riddle,’ Noone remarked.
‘Does, Nate, he’s still with us. He loved a cryptic puzzle as much as he loved language and grammar. Look at the first part of this message. “At the centre of end”,’ Belle expressed enthusiastically.
‘What is the centre of the end?’ Noone replied.
‘Well, you’ve just confirmed my suspicions on this clue. It’s not ‘the’ end. It just says ‘end’. With his attention to detail, I doubt that was simply a hurried mistake.’ Belle responded.
‘And so … the centre of end ... is?’ Noone questioned.
‘N. the letter “N” is the centre of end,’ Belle replied. ‘I believe the answer is absolute.’
‘OK, Belle, if it makes sense to you. So, how are you going to “redefine the middle”.’
Belle reached towards a succinct collection of books next to a typewriter on the desk. She thumbed the Oxford Dictionary quickly to the M section. Speed-reading the description, she placed it back in its perfectly organised gap and grabbed the Thesaurus. Repeating the process, she skimmed the pages to the M section and focused on Middle.
‘... average, between, betwixt, equidistant, mean, medial, median, medium, middle of the day … ’ Half mumbling and talking to herself she read the list of associated words. ‘Middle of the day? Why is that so specific in the list,’ she called out.
‘Middle of the day?’ Nathaniel laughed.
‘What’s so funny.’
‘Oh, come on, Belle. You can’t be serious.’
Belle took a step back and cast a frown at Noone. For a brief moment, she couldn’t see the wood for the trees.
‘Noon! But spelt differently, Belle. N-Noon, your father is referring to me.’
The light bulb finally struck and she returned to her journal forwarding the calendar pages to July 1, Nathaniel Noone’s birthday.
‘You know my birthday?’ Noone asked, surprised.
Belle blushed, very briefly, before moving over to draw the blinds once more. Lighting the torch and its ethereal violet glow she shone it over the diary page dated July 1.
‘The wily old fox.’ Noone laughed.
Lit up in purple scrawl was Montague Soames’ handwriting, again. ‘In plane sight!’
‘So much for old Monty being a stickler for spelling and grammar.’ Noone laughed once more.
‘That’s definitely not a spelling mistake, Nate. Call yourself a spy,’ Belle scolded him subtly. He knew already that Monty was directing them towards answers.
*****
The subtle majesty of the Museum of Natural History and Science came into view after a bone-rattling two hours in the company of Major Boyd Collingdale.
Gideon struggled to separate which element was worse. The uncomfortable seat, the smell of the engine, or the noise of the Major himself, who could drown out a faulty eight-stroke engine without a smidgen of effort due to his formidable military lungs. It was a welcome relief to finally stretch his legs as they pulled up past barricades of barbed wire at the impressive stone entrance.
‘We want you!’ Pointed towards him from the famous finger of Kitchener as his eyes bore down from the famous first world war image that now covered the corridors of the Museum and many of the billboards throughout the city.
On entering the intricately carved threshold, two orderly lines of staff had lined up to greet the Major on his return. Those who had worn them doffed their caps as a mark of respect for the Professor’s passing. The opposing lines of staff created a pathway to where the entrance of Entomology once stood. A herculean effort had ensured that all manner of rubble and debris had been removed in the hours since Collingdale’s reconnaissance and acquisition of Gideon.
‘Major Collingdale,’ came the voice of the actuary in charge of clearing the way. ‘We’ve secured the area and it is now fully lit. We have removed the offending cabinet but everything else remains untouched.’
A rare acknowledgement of gratitude from the Major towards the man followed as he nodded then removed his peaked cap and began the quiet walk to where the dead man lay.
It was eerily quiet, unlike the usual hive of activity with the booming orders from Collingdale’s mouth to keep everyone on their toes. The Major was unusually subdued. Gideon approached the Entomology entrance with a sense of anxiety but nevertheless impressed by the corridor of wood and glass exhibits now labouring under the monolithic weight of the Museum building. The Major and Gideon entered the area, alone, lights strung every few yards illuminated their way.
‘Prepare yourself, Belchambers. This will come as a shock,’ Collingdale advised.
The Entomology department had metamorphosed since Collingdale had spent a long night in the darkness. The desk, his refuge during those long hours, sat in the centre, almost impeccably cleaned with the exception of tears across the green baize. The linen-dressed Professor was not far beyond. A crushed boater lay by his side. His face was crumpled into the ground but his arm stretched out with a grasping claw at its end.
‘Listen,’ Collingdale instructed Gideon, pointing his ear towards the floor. ‘Can you hear them?’
Following the Major’s lead, Gideon bent forward, turning his head to hear the tiny macerating sounds of feasting insects. A random bluebottle whirred and made an occasional attempt to land on the cadaver but each time spooked itself with the presence of the advancing men. The department was well enough lit that the night time creepy crawlies had retreated to the sanctuary of the dark.
‘Which way shall we roll him, Dr Belchambers?’ Collingdale asked.
Gideon studied the outstretched arm. Rigor mortis was going to make the process awkward. As he stared at the grasping metacarpals, he noticed contusions running from the palm outwards. Whatever he had been clinging onto, it had been torn from his hand post mortem.
‘I think we roll him using the arm as leverage, Major,’ Gideon advised ‘To me then, on three. One, two, three.’
With a heave and the countered weight of the arm, the two men managed to roll the body over.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ the Major bellowed, as a mini plague of beetles and roaches scattered over his boots to find shade.
‘Don’t move, Major,’ Gideon ordered him. ‘Stay perfectly still.’
‘What? What is it?’ came the nervous reply.
Gideon made a quick search of the surroundings and found an empty inkpot. Spying the quill from the inkpot, he procured it quickly and returned to his comrade, crouching just beneath his knee.
‘I wouldn’t look down if I was you,’ Gideon suggested.
It was too late. The Major had seen the undeniable sting of the Death-stalker as it stood there motionless on its eight legs just above his ankle. A woollen sock the only barrier between himself and a deadly encounter.
; ‘What are you going to do with that feather, tickle the damn thing?’ Collingdale critiqued through gritted teeth.
‘That’s exactly right,’ Gideon responded.
‘Whaaa–’
‘Ssshhh. Stay very still,’ Gideon ordered the Major before another bout of his shouting was unleashed. ‘The hairs on its legs are sensitive to movement.’ Gideon gently brushed the feather against the arachnid’s legs. It slowly turned around as he coaxed it into the container. ‘That was close, Major. A sock away from instant paralysis.’
‘Or death,’ Collingdale concluded.
‘Oh, these can’t kill you. They can sting you so badly you may wish you were dead though,’ Gideon continued, securing the scorpion in the pot.
‘Enough talk, Doctor. Shall we attend to our friend?’
Gideon took a deep breath and finally drew up to the dead man’s face. Disfigured as he was from the impact of the cabinet, his eyes remained unmistakable. As green as envy itself. He would recognise them anywhere.
‘It’s not him, Major,’ Gideon advised.
‘Are you sure? Here, let me look.’ Collingdale crouched closer and squinted. His eyesight was ageing, as he was.
Gideon scanned the face once again. They were excellent disguises but the hairpiece and moustache were fake. He gently teased the moustache before a tiny ripping sound tore the gummed adhesive from the wearer’s upper lip.
‘Good grief. An imposter,’ Collingdale announced. ‘But why?’
‘I’ve no idea, Major,’ Gideon replied. Knowing full well he was lying.
‘I knew it. I knew he was a bachelor. That’s not a wedding band. Is it?’ Collingdale asked, seeking closure.
Gideon looked closer. The band was actually two separate rings interlocked in a serpentine pattern. It was familiar to him.
‘I’m not sure where this leaves us,’ Collingdale expressed.
‘I would say that Professor Malcolm is now officially a missing person,’ Gideon answered.
‘I must inform the authorities of this at once. Hold fire here, Belchambers. Shan’t be long,’ the Major ordered.
As he slipped out of view, Gideon knew he had only minutes to secure what he suspected was there. The make-up gum that held the fake moustache in place was peeling at the edges of the cadaver’s face. Ensuring he wasn’t being watched, Gideon slowly removed what remained attached. Post-mortem rigor mortis stopped any bleeding but the occasional tearing of skin sent shivers down his spine. On removing the facial hair, he then set about the hairpiece. It too had been well set and offered a surreal identity to the man that lay beneath it. A few rips of glue from skin were inevitable but once removed his fears were realised. The bald man with the piercing green eyes he had known as a good friend all those years ago. It had only been weeks since he had re-entered his life. But this time without any subversion of the truth, Gideon had identified him as a considerable adversary. His foreboding was coming true. Gideon had been wise not to have trusted him.
