His descendants had followed resolutely in Uwe’s footsteps, growing more discreet as their literary specializations became increasingly esoteric. Antiquariat Gerhardt Falkenrath did not advertise its vendibles, and until recently its website had consisted solely of a name, an e-mail address, and an invitation to inquire about areas of interest—“until recently,” because Antiquariat Gerhardt Falkenrath was now no more. In what the city’s eighteenth-century ecclesiastical rulers might well have regarded as a manifestation of delayed divine justice, the premises had burned down some weeks previously, turning to a blackened mass not only all its stock but also Gerhardt Falkenrath himself, who had been secured to a chair with wire before being left to incinerate with his merchandise.
From his sources, Johnston learned that Falkenrath and Cornelie Gruner had been in competition for decades—not for customers, but for particular rare books. Each had his own patrons, and rarely did a collector give business to both vendors, or not openly. This was particularly true at the higher, more arcane end of the market, where animosities and rivalries ran deep. While few of Johnston’s contacts knew of the search for the Fractured Atlas, and those who did were generally unwilling even to speak of it, one collector, a wealthy Oslo salmon heir who was too young, too fanatical, or too foolish to be circumspect, had suggested to Johnston that Falkenrath’s murder was a punishment for selling the Rackham book to the wrong buyer. Vernay might have been one of Falkenrath’s established clients, the collector claimed, but Falkenrath should have known that more serious bidders were circling—more serious in both their finances and their intentions.
“Such as?” Johnston had asked.
“I don’t know. Someone in London, I heard.”
“Heard from whom?”
“Cornelie Gruner.”
And now Gruner was also dead.
Today’s work had involved more general research: an effort to reach a greater understanding of the Atlas itself through those who had sought it in the past, using Vernay and his interests as tools to unpick the locks. If Vernay’s principal obsession was the Atlas, it stood to reason that the books he had ordered, and the references in his notes, were related to it.
When, in the aftermath of the Quayle killings, the FBI eventually accessed Vernay’s home in Covington, Kentucky, it became immediately clear that someone had attempted to divest it of anything relevant to their inquiries, including the person of Vernay himself. (Most of his remains had yet to be discovered, although part of his jawbone had turned up by the Licking River, carried in the mouth of a hungry dog.)
Vernay’s computer was missing, as were a number of his files, judging by the gaps in his office shelves. Some of these had been burned in a pile in the hallway, possibly in an effort to destroy the entire house—another example of fire being used to hide tracks in matters relating to the Atlas—but the blaze hadn’t spread because insufficient accelerant had been used. The damage was still extensive, but Ross had passed details of most of what had been salvaged to Parker, who in turn had given them to Johnston. Aided by his own network, Johnston was now making more headway than the FBI had managed.
He left the library, but did not hail a cab. London passed by too quickly that way, and Johnston wanted to savor the city while he had the chance. Now that his appetite for travel had been stimulated, he had the urge to visit Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Berlin—all the great European cities, perhaps accompanied by Rosanna Bellingham, if things continued to work out between them. He had some money saved, and his own book collection was worth a low six-figure sum. He’d always intended to sell it someday, or so he’d told himself, even as it grew and grew. He loved those books, but was not sentimental about them. What mattered was that he had cherished and, in many cases, restored them. He had kept them safe, and ensured their continuance in this world. When he died, the collection would be dispersed, and he would have no control over this scattering. At least if he took care of the sale himself, he could be certain that the best items went to the right homes. Some he would keep, of course, because they were too precious to him to sell. And if he lived long enough, well, he would have new spaces on his shelves to be filled, and another treasury to assemble.
So he walked back to Soho, in the shadows of great buildings, in the shadows of history.
In the abiding shadow of Quayle.
CHAPTER CIV
Emily Lockwood resumed her seat, and informed her secretary that she did not wish to be disturbed. From her desk she accessed the security system, and used its cameras to monitor Parker’s progress through the building. She was relieved to see him depart, and not only because of the nature of his questions. She found him ill-bred.
A door opened in the wall behind her, and Pallida Mors entered the room. She stood silently behind the lawyer, watching as Parker waved to the camera before departing.
“You handled him well,” said Mors.
Lockwood did not react to the smell of Mors’s breath, or the musk of her. Displaying an aversion to it angered Mors, and it was better not to do that. Unlike Sellars, Lockwood had given up wondering at the cause of the fetor. All she knew was that it was unnatural, and therefore its origins were best left unexplored.
“I would have preferred not to have handled him at all,” said Lockwood. “I don’t even understand why he bothered. He learned nothing he didn’t already know, or nothing worth knowing.”
Mors kept her eyes on the screen, until Parker fell under the eye of the final external camera and was swept away by the city’s tide.
“He wants us to know he’s here. He’s putting himself in harm’s way.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s hoping to draw us out.”
This was more than Lockwood wanted to hear. Even having Mors in the main building put the reputation of the firm at risk, which was why the woman rarely visited—and when she did, she entered and departed through the partners’ door, unseen by cameras or secretaries. While Lockwood maintained a pretense of knowing nothing of Mors’s proclivities, she was aware of more of them than was conducive to consistently peaceful sleep. Now this man Parker was hunting Mors and Quayle, and had traced them to the firm’s door. Were Mors to be seen in the vicinity of the building, the oddness of her appearance registering with some minor employee or visiting client…
“I don’t wish to know about it,” said Lockwood. “I took a risk just notifying you of his presence, and allowing you to listen in on our conversation.”
As discreetly as she could, Lockwood removed a paper tissue from her drawer and wiped her nose. The tissue was heavily scented with eucalyptus.
“Are you ill?” Mors asked.
“A summer cold,” Lockwood lied. She reached for another tissue, in the hope that two might be more effective than one. God, the woman stank. It was even worse than Lockwood remembered.
“Allow me to help you,” said Mors.
She grasped a handful of tissues in her right hand, and jammed them hard against Lockwood’s nose while gripping a handful of the lawyer’s hair in her left. Lockwood had never before endured actual physical contact with Mors. Her skin was very cold and dry, like the integument of a dead reptile, and made Lockwood’s lips and cheeks itch. Her fingernails were sharp, and dug into the tender tissue of Lockwood’s nostrils, so that she drew in the essence of Mors with every breath, and tasted her on her tongue. She tried not to gag, but suddenly the face of Mors was close to her own, her voice whispering in Lockwood’s ear.
“Pay attention, bitch: you’ll listen when I say, and you’ll do whatever you’re told. Remember where the money that built this firm came from, and the source of your own generous annual dividend, because I don’t think you’ve even come close to earning it yet. We have an agreement, but perhaps you need to be reminded of its terms.”
Mors tossed aside the wad of tissues, but continued to grip Lockwood’s head as she leaned down to kiss her, forcing the lawyer’s jaws wide, her tongue invading her body, her lungs pumping great gusts of rank
breath into her mouth, her teeth gnawing at lips and gums. Lockwood tried to scratch at her with her right hand, but Mors caught it easily while keeping the left pinned. Lockwood spasmed, her cheeks puffing, but Mors kept her mouth fixed, even as the lawyer began to purge her stomach of its contents. Only then did Mors step back, spitting out whatever had passed between them before wiping away the rest, while Lockwood fell to her knees and continued to retch on the carpet until only bile emerged.
“You’ll need to get that cleaned,” said Mors. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
She exited the same way she had entered, leaving Lockwood alone with her regrets.
CHAPTER CV
Walsingham—or more accurately Little Walsingham, as two villages share the name, although Walsingham will do for our purposes—is reached by way of narrow, hedge-lined byways that are more lanes than roads. They lead to a settlement by the River Stiffkey that is still dotted with timber-framed medieval buildings, as well as the Georgian pubs and houses of a later era, all surrounding the Common Place, the main square. The village’s prettiness alone would make it distinctive, but it is rendered more unusual still by various stores selling religious trinkets: statuary, candlesticks, and ornate thuribles; icons, plates, and images of the Virgin Mary. Such idolatry speaks less of a village in a predominantly Protestant England and more of a bastion of European Catholicism. The clue lies in the names above the windows—the Pilgrim Shop, the Shrine Shop—for this was once the holiest site in England, a place of pilgrimage to rank with Jerusalem itself.
The manner in which this came about is peculiar, even by the standards of certain strains of religious devotion. It seems that in 1061, Richeldis de Faverches, a wealthy noblewoman, had a vision in which she was transported to the home of the Virgin Mary in Nazareth, ordered to take note of its dimensions, and construct a replica in a specific location in Walsingham, which she did. Unfortunately, the house was built on the wrong site, but by divine intervention was moved overnight to the correct one. As word of this miracle spread, people began journeying to Walsingham to view what was literally a Holy House, and by the middle of the twelfth century the Augustinians had erected there the Priory of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The fourteenth century saw the construction of a church around Richeldis’s original structure in order to protect it both from the elements and the attentions of increasing numbers of pilgrims; but the Reformation led to the destruction of the Holy House and the priory, and these days it is to the Slipper Chapel, a mile from the town, that Catholic pilgrims come, walking barefoot from the village along what is known as the Holy Mile. Ruins are now all that remain of the priory, dominated by a single vast wall enclosing the east window.
And so the priory endures.
* * *
ALL QUIET HERE, THE streets and lanes empty, the leaves on the branches barely astir. All quiet at the Slipper Chapel, all quiet in the village. Later, people will remark upon it: how their dogs and cats seemed reluctant to venture beyond the door that day; how those animals already outside began to seek shelter, the cattle gathering in herds under trees, as though fearful of a storm; how Walsingham, unknowing, held its breath in anticipation of a moment of revelation.
The sun was low as Bobby Coppinger set up his camera to frame the priory’s east window, a copse of trees behind it marking the site of the Well Garden. He was standing close to the former location of the Holy House, a spot he had chosen quite deliberately in order to make the connection between what was gone and what remained. He had always been a spiritual man, if not a regular churchgoer, although more so since the death of his only daughter, Bernice, a year earlier. Her passing—an embolism while traveling to work, sitting on a bus surrounded by strangers—had driven a wedge between Coppinger and his wife, or perhaps widened a preexisting fracture in their relationship. They now seldom spoke, and when they did, it was only about mundane matters, so that each mourned alone. Their estrangement was made worse by the fact that Bobby had taken early retirement just a few months before Bernice’s death. Enforced proximity was rendering the marital situation increasingly intolerable.
Coppinger couldn’t say why he had begun taking pictures of ecclesiastical ruins. He’d long held an interest in photography, and had owned a succession of moderately decent cameras over the years, but had never devoted himself to a single subject before. He was lately finding a beauty in absence, a grandeur in decay, but he was also experiencing a renewal of his childhood Catholicism. Curiously, he felt closer to God amid ruination, and no intact church, however magnificent, imbued him with the sense of peace and sanctity he found in gazing upon the vestiges of older constructions. (This was another reason for his alienation from his wife: she could not understand why he continued to turn to God after He had taken their daughter from them, and he could not explain it to her, except to say that, without his faith, he would have nothing.)
Even though he had spent most of his adult life in Norwich, barely an hour to the south, this was Coppinger’s first visit to Walsingham; and while he was familiar with the east window from pictures, he had been taken aback by the physical reality. The ruin appeared to him less a vestigial window than a gateway, a great open door framed by turrets, a physical symbol of the journey from this world to the next. And yet, from another angle, it resembled a mouth, the jagged remnants of the frames like tiny sharp teeth, a machine for the consumption of lives and souls.
Coppinger peered through the viewfinder, ready at last to take his first shot. He was using a twenty-year-old Nikon because he had no truck with digital cameras, not for this work. The pleasure for him lay not only in preparing, judging, and photographing, but also in the process of developing the final image. He had installed blackout blinds in his shed, which functioned as his darkroom as well as his den. He loved the moment when the image began to appear on the photographic paper, blankness turning to shades of black and gray, and what was hidden slowly becoming observable.
His finger was about to press the button when a smudge appeared on the lens, just at ground level between the two turrets. An insect of some kind, Coppinger thought, and flicked a hand at it while remaining crouched, but the obstruction did not disappear. Dirt, then; he took a brush and cloth from his bag and examined the lens, but could see no mark. Still, he cleaned it carefully before resuming his position.
The stain remained, but its shape had altered. It now bore the lineaments of a human being: a young woman wearing a short coat or dress, her features obscured by the sun—her every facet, in fact, seeming more shadow than substance. Somehow, she had wandered into the frame without his noticing, and now stood at the entrance to the Well Garden. While it wasn’t as though he had some exclusive license to photograph the priory, and a person could walk where she pleased, Coppinger did want to get at least one or two good shots before the light began to fade. He took his eye from the viewfinder, the first polite word already forming on his lips—
The girl was gone. The window was empty. He was once again alone among the stones.
Yet when he returned to the viewfinder, she was there. Not a girl, exactly, but the semblance of one, her profile indistinct like a silhouette imperfectly cut from dark paper, or a drawing that has blurred at the edges as the ink begins to spread. But when he looked directly at the window, he could see no one.
Coppinger had no explanation for what was occurring. He did not believe in ghosts, and trusted only that he would be reunited with his daughter in another life, not this one. What he did next was, in a way, entirely logical, while simultaneously making no sense at all. He removed the camera from its tripod, held it before his face with the ruin framed in the viewfinder, and started walking forward. The image of the girl remained visible to him, although it did not grow any clearer, and he still could not discern her features.
In a story, he thought, this would be Bernice, come to visit him a final time, letting him know that he was right to have hope. But the part of him that had held her and loved her in life, and continued to
cherish her memory, knew that this was not his daughter. It was not even some last remnant of her conjured from his memories. It was entirely another.
As he drew closer, Coppinger experienced a growing disquiet, one he could not attribute solely to the apparent presence of a specter in his camera lens. Rather, it was the apprehension one feels upon walking too close to rocks that the tide threatens to engulf at any moment. His hearing became less distinct, and he endured a chill both sudden and painful in his fingertips, his ears, and at the end of his nose. He felt a weight encompass him, and the world grew dark, until all he could see was the image in the viewfinder. Still, he did not turn back. The girl was calling to him: not with words, but with pain. It was her cold he felt, her compression, her darkness. She was not his daughter, but she was someone’s. She was a child in trouble, and Coppinger would have been less of a father to his own child, however lost to him she might be, were he to turn away from the sufferings of another.
At last he stood in the shadow of the east window. He lowered his camera. The stonework no longer framed trees and hills, but was instead filled with stars. One by one they died as he watched, some flickering to nothingness, others flowering in incendiary bursts before vanishing forever. As the stars went out, Coppinger detected movement in the void, as though a path were being cleared of light so that something monstrous could advance unrevealed until the final moment—monstrous, yet beautiful; this, too, he sensed. He could look upon it, if he chose. All he had to do was wait.
A Book of Bones Page 51
