‘They take the unfortunate children, and others, who will not be missed,’ Sir William summarised. ‘The police are discouraged from investigating when the bodies are found. If the bodies are found. But I imagine it doesn’t take much to persuade them to focus their attentions on more worthy causes.’ He shook his head sadly.
‘This John Remick might be able to tell us more. If he’s still at my house,’ George said.
‘Too risky. I imagine your house is being watched.’
‘And Remick will have legged it off out of there if he knows what’s good for him,’ Eddie said. ‘He won’t go back to Pearce at the workhouse, neither.’
It was George’s turn to tell them his story. He described his visit to the Damnation Club and the masked ball. ‘I didn’t realise you were there too, Eddie.’
‘You’d have told me off for being out late.’
‘Perhaps we could confine ourselves to the relevant narrative?’ Sir William suggested. ‘Time may be of the essence, but leave nothing out, any small thing may be a clue.’
‘So,’ George said as he finished his story, ‘what are they planning and how do we stop them?’
‘Why not let them get on with it and keep out of the way?’ Eddie said.
‘I doubt if that is an option,’ Sir William said quietly. ‘First, they know that for all their secrecy we three are aware of their existence. And second, I know from my own discussions with Lord Ruthven that matters are coming to a head. The status quo – even if it were acceptable – can no longer be maintained. The waking of this Orabis seems to be a pivotal moment.’
‘It was horrific,’ George recalled with a shudder. ‘The way he was plumbed into the pipes. The way they seemed to be keeping him alive.’
‘Undead,’ Eddie remembered. ‘Lord of the Undead that Coachman called him.’
‘Vampires are said to be undead,’ Sir William explained. ‘Our problem will be separating the real truth from the myths and stories that have grown up – that they have fostered and encouraged.’
‘We can start with Orabis,’ George said. ‘Maybe Xavier Hemming knew the truth. Maybe that’s why he had the mummy here in the first place.’
‘An excellent notion, and a good theory. But we know from the catalogue that Hemming did not commit himself to paper.’
‘What do you mean?’ Eddie asked.
‘There’s no notes of any use about the mummy,’ George said.
‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t write something down. Somewhere else,’ Eddie said. ‘What about those jars and stuff in the crate? Maybe he wrote about them.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘But Eddie is right,’ Sir William said thoughtfully. ‘We may simply be looking in the wrong place. You say that Orabis was hailed by the others as Lord of the Undead? Lord Ruthven mentioned several possible sources of information, including the Book of the Undead.’
‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’
Sir William rubbed absently at the scar on his neck. ‘I have no idea. There is an Egyptian Book of the Dead. So perhaps it relates to Orabis in some way.’
‘They’ve been around a long time, these vampires,’ Eddie said.
‘Indeed.’
‘This fifth casket they’re after,’ George said. ‘Is that connected too?’
‘In what way?’
‘You said Lord Ruthven was after a fifth jar, from the mummy.’
‘But there isn’t one,’ Sir William pointed out.
‘Unless it’s hidden,’ Eddie said. ‘Like whatever this Hemming knew about the mummy.’
‘He hid it all,’ Sir William realised. His eyes were sparkling behind his glasses. ‘Xavier Hemming knew. And he planned for this. He kept the mummy here, hidden.’
‘Only somehow they found it,’ George said.
‘And he concealed the fifth jar or casket, whatever it is. He knew they needed that too.’
‘But why? What’s in it?’
‘If we knew that, Eddie my friend, then we would be in a lot stronger position than we are now.’
‘So, let’s find out.’
‘It isn’t that easy,’ George said sternly.
‘Oh but it may be,’ Sir William declared, standing up. ‘If we find the Book of the Undead, that may be the clue we need to bring it all together. It’s certainly important.’
‘And where do we find that?’ George asked.
‘In Hemming’s meticulous catalogues – where else?’
They found the entry in the catalogue of Writings, Ancient. Sir William led the way down into the archive beneath the Museum.
‘Does either of you read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics?’ he asked as they made their way through the mass of crates and cabinets, shelves and cupboards.
‘Er, not me,’ George confessed. ‘Eddie?’ he asked with a wink.
‘Haven’t got to that yet in school.’
‘Pity, pity. I have a smattering, but we may need more than that. I wonder if we can trust that fool Mason in Egyptology. Or our old friend Brinson, come to that.’
The cupboard was full of rolled parchment scrolls. There was a list of them glued on the inside of the wooden door, complete with the catalogue numbers.
‘AS-931,’ Sir William murmured as he traced his finger along the scrolls. Each had a small tag attached by string. ‘AS-931 … Does not appear to be here,’ he announced at last.
Eddie leaned past him, reaching into the cupboard. ‘There’s something jammed at the back here,’ he said. He pulled out a dusty book bound in cracked leather.
‘Hardly ancient Egyptian,’ George said.
‘No, no, let me see.’ Sir William took it from Eddie.
The spine creaked as he opened the book. It was a notebook, the pages filled with the distinctive copperplate handwriting that George knew belonged to Xavier Hemming.
‘Oh yes,’ Sir William breathed. ‘Well done, Eddie. We may not have the original – perhaps Lord Ruthven found that when he had the mummy itself removed. But this is Hemming’s own translation of the scrolls stored in this section of the archive.’
‘Does it include …?’ George’s voice tailed off. He could see his answer in Sir William’s smile.
‘Extracts from the Book of the Undead, translated by Xavier Hemming himself. And look – he has drawn a line down the margin of one passage in particular. I think, my friends, that this is the section he would want us to look at.’
Eddie’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Go on, then. Tell us what it says.’
Sir William adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and began to read.
And a third time they buried Orabis deep in the ground, covering his grave with sand of the desert and stones from the mountain. But again he rose, clawing his way through the earth with his bare hands. And this time the suffering was even greater and his vengeance was meted out on all of the people.
The vengeance of Orabis was so great that Pharaoh himself lost his first-born to the blood-sickness. And great was the lamentation of mighty Pharaoh who called on the gods of Egypt to rise against the usurper Orabis, so-called Lord of the Undead.
And so Anubis, it is said, gave power and wisdom to Pharaoh’s daughter Heba who lured Orabis to the place of death. For even an Undead Lord can be killed here if his very heart be taken from him. Or else when Thoth weighed the heart of the Undead, the god would find him lacking and send him back to the World of Men, and Orabis would return.
The soldiers and priests fell upon Orabis and did bind him, like an embalmed mummy. They wrapped sand from his homeland between the bandages that he might sleep. They wrapped the herb that some call garlic round his limbs that he might not move. They hid from his sight behind polished silver to avoid his retribution should the Lord of the Undead rise again to visit the blood-sickness on them.
Anubis spake to Pharaoh’s daughter. He told her that Thoth would receive the immortal soul of Orabis and would bind him for ever in sleep if his heart be cut out. For only when his hear
t no longer beats and is destroyed or separated from his body can a creature such as Orabis truly die.
They embalmed him according to ancient lore. They prepared Canopic Jars as is the custom. But as well as the lungs and the liver and the intestines and the stomach being placed in jars fashioned after the sons of Horus, a fifth jar was prepared. And this was in the form of Nehebkau the Scorpion, Guardian of the Gates to the Underworld. And into this jar was placed the heart of Orabis, removed from his chest by Heba daughter of Pharaoh even as it still beat and pumped the lifeblood.
The jar was sealed and buried. And Orabis was also sealed, in a sarcophagus lined with silver, and he was buried unmarked in the desert sand from which – as Pharaoh and his people prayed – he would never return unless his heart be restored and the blood once more flow through his wicked veins …
Eddie sat on one of the sealed crates, kicking his legs as he and George listened to Sir William.
‘There the translation ends.’
‘Good story,’ Eddie said. ‘Guess we know what’s in that fifth jar now.’
‘The vampire’s heart,’ George said. ‘Do we believe that? It sounds incredible.’
‘But it would explain why he is plumbed into a system of pipes and pumps. To replace the heart he no longer has beating in his chest.’
‘And they’re after this jar so they can give him his heart back?’ Eddie asked.
‘It would seem so.’
Eddie grimaced. ‘Maybe we should let them have it.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Sir William insisted. ‘We can only begin to guess at the horrors Orabis would visit upon this city – possibly the world – if he were made whole again. For the moment he is weakened and ineffective. Which gives us time.’
‘But time for what?’ Eddie wondered.
‘What indeed. Now, this Book of the Undead tells us several things. It was written by someone who had direct experience of dealing with Orabis, and whose motivation in writing must have been to warn others. So this isn’t propaganda and lies. It is the truth, at least so far as the author understood it.’
‘And that helps?’ George wondered.
‘It helps because it describes how Orabis was defeated. Now, we don’t know where or what this place of death might be. But we do know that a vampire needs earth from his home close by when he sleeps. Possibly in actual contact. Ruthven told me that also.’
‘And there’s mention of the silver that lines the coffin,’ George realised.
‘More than that. It says they hid behind silver. Behind mirrors, perhaps?’
‘And vampires have no reflection,’ Eddie said. ‘Charlie didn’t show in the window, but my reflection was there. Right creepy, it was.’
‘They have a special relationship with silver, and with light. Again, Ruthven mentioned this and the translation seems to confirm it. No reflection, an aversion to silver and to bright light – especially sunlight.’
George snapped his fingers as something else occurred to him. ‘And they don’t appear in photographs!’
Sir William smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, well done.’
‘So, we’ve got the evidence,’ Eddie said. ‘Let’s go to the coppers. Let the police handle it.’
‘A possible course of action,’ Sir William admitted. ‘But one which I fear is doomed to failure.’
‘And why’s that, then?’
‘Because we know from George here, that the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Harrison Judd, is a member of the Damnation Club. And Sir Harrison was at the Unwrapping, remember. It was he who nudged Brinson so he cut himself and the blood fell on the mummy.’
‘But then, who can we trust?’ George asked. ‘We know some of the people. We saw some at the ceremony in the catacombs. But the Damnation Club has members from the highest ranks of society. There are rumours that the Home Secretary …’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘We can’t do anything, can we? They have people everywhere.’
‘Even in the Museum and the Royal Society,’ Sir William said quietly. ‘Like Lord Ruthven. I am afraid we have no way of even knowing who is our enemy.’
‘Course we do,’ Eddie said. ‘We take photographs and see who shows up in them.’
‘Yes, that might work,’ Sir William agreed. ‘A good idea, young man. Don’t you think so, George?’
But George was looking anxious. ‘I just thought – Eddie said the Coachman mentioned that Liz was not a threat to them. And when I was at the ball at the Damnation Club – I thought I saw her there. You don’t think …?’
Eddie almost laughed at the suggestion. ‘Nah – course not. Liz? She couldn’t be.’
‘Unlikely, I agree. But we should make certain immediately that she is all right,’ Sir William said. ‘And we’ll take a mirror.’
CHAPTER 18
As soon as Liz opened the door, George could see there was something wrong. The early morning sun had struggled through the London smog and Liz blinked as she stood in its full glare.
Sir William had a small mirror concealed in his hand, and angled it to look briefly at Liz’s reflection. He nodded with relief at George and Eddie, and pocketed the mirror.
‘I’m sorry,’ George said. ‘It’s very early. We should come back later. Your father will …’ He broke off as Liz turned away. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
It was not until they were inside, sitting in the small front room, that Liz told them of her father’s sudden decline and death. George immediately moved to sit beside her, holding her hands in his. Sir William excused himself to make tea, and Eddie fidgeted with embarrassment.
‘Perhaps we should not have come,’ George said. ‘If you’d like us to leave you in peace …?’
Liz shook her head. ‘No. No, I am glad you are here. It seems a long time since I last saw you. So much has happened since, with Father and Marie and everything.’
‘Lots been happening to us too,’ Eddie put in.
‘Later,’ George mouthed at him.
‘Suit yourself,’ Eddie said. ‘He was very old,’ he told Liz.
‘Eddie!’ George snapped back. He felt awful that he had not been there for Liz when she needed him.
But Liz smiled thinly. ‘Thank you, Eddie. He did seem it, though he wasn’t so old really. Just frail. And I suppose I always expected …’ She turned away, biting her lip. ‘He seems so much better now. So relaxed. At peace.’
Eddie looked alarmed. ‘You ain’t still got him here, have you?’
‘No. He is laid out in the family crypt. At St Bardolph’s. Just until the funeral.’
‘I am so sorry,’ George said. ‘You should have let me know. I could have …’
But Liz was shaking her head. ‘I’ve been all right. Really I have. I am in a play at the Parthenon Theatre.’
‘With Henry Malvern?’ George asked. Liz nodded, and he felt his heart sink.
‘He has been so very understanding,’ she said. ‘Such a comfort.’
‘So, you didn’t need me then,’ George murmured.
If Liz heard him, she said nothing. Her voice had taken on a new strength as she described the play. Sir William returned with a pot of tea and poured a cup for each of them.
‘And with Marie Cuttler taken ill, it seems I am to play the lead role of Marguerite,’ Liz finished.
‘That is excellent news,’ Sir William enthused. ‘And despite your recent loss – for which I offer sincere condolences and sympathy – I am delighted to find you so well.’
‘I wish Marie was well,’ Liz told him. ‘It’s so strange. So like father. And so like the play.’
‘The play?’ Eddie said. ‘What play?’
‘The Lady of the Camellias.’
Sir William set down his tea cup and leaned forward in his chair. ‘But The Lady of the Camellias, surely, is about a woman who dies from consumption. She weakens, grows pale, fades away. The white plague.’
‘That’s right,’ Liz said. ‘I think perhaps that is what Marie has. A wasting disease.’
George caught Sir William’s eye and could tell they were both thinking the same thing. ‘Could be coincidence,’ he said.
‘This play is occupying a lot of your time,’ Sir William said.
‘Of course.’
‘Which would not be the case if Marie Cuttler were well enough to play the leading role.’
‘True.’
Eddie leaped to his feet. ‘Here – you don’t think …?’
Sir William waved him to silence. ‘I think nothing. But I would like to meet Marie Cuttler. Possibly I can help.’
‘Do you think so?’ Liz asked. ‘Of course, I shall take you to her hotel. Though it is early.’
‘Straight away, please,’ Sir William said, in a tone that left none of them any illusions about the urgency. ‘Oh, and if you have any, bring some garlic.’
Liz frowned. ‘I can look in the pantry. I think we have some.’
‘Why garlic?’ Eddie asked.
‘A traditional defence. And they used it to bind Orabis in his coffin, remember.’
‘I can nick some from the market,’ Eddie offered. George glared at him. ‘What?’ Eddie demanded. ‘Important, isn’t it?’
‘No, no, no,’ Sir William shook his head. ‘Miss Oldfield – on the way I shall explain what is happening. But for now please find any garlic you can. And if your father had a silver crucifix, that would also help.’
The hotel room was in near darkness although the sun was shining brightly outside. The curtains were drawn, and the lamps were turned down low.
After Liz had quickly introduced them all to Marie, Sir William sent Eddie and George to the hotel kitchens to ask for more garlic. ‘How long have you been ill?’ he asked as he felt for Marie’s pulse.
‘Who can say?’ she replied weakly. ‘When does tiredness become an illness? I’m just exhausted. I’m not as young as I used to be.’
Sir William reached up to tilt Marie’s head gently to one side. The high collar of her nightgown reached up to her chin, and he regarded it suspiciously for a moment.
‘Something wrong?’ Marie asked. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Oh no. No to both questions.’ He stepped back, and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘As you say, tired and under the weather. Would you like me to open the curtains? It’s such a lovely day and I’m sure the sunshine will do you good.’
The Parliament of Blood Page 16
