The Book of Ultimate Truths

by Robert Rankin

  After a week Cornelius found that he could distinguish between the various visitors to the house, even before he could hear their footsteps or they entered the sickroom. And soon he was able to sniff out what they had in their pockets. Folded linen handkerchiefs, bags of sweeties, the ink in their fountain pens. He would lie in his bed and build up an olfactory image of the visitor. From whatever they had on the soles of their shoes to the brand of hair cream they favoured.

  He could smell the breakfast on their breath and certain more personal things, which he was, at that time, too young to understand.

  The daddy, who spent many long hours in the sickroom, entertaining his son with tall tales of his youth, encouraged this new-found talent and brought Cornelius boxes of unrelated objects for him to test himself upon. Animal, vegetable, mineral. Whatever came to hand. And once smelt and identified, Cornelius was rarely wrong the second time.

  Naturally the daddy was not slow to spy out the sunlit window of financial opportunity in the night-dark sickroom. And many visitors arrived, eager to ask Cornelius what they were holding behind their backs or had stuffed deeply into their pockets. It passed the time, and as soon as Cornelius had managed to distinguish between the scent of a one-pound note and that of a fiver, even beyond the closed door, the daddy split the takings fifty-fifty.

  It was a very satisfactory arrangement, while it lasted. It certainly made the six weeks go fast. It was a terrible shame though about the epidemic of scarlet fever which subsequently spread across the surrounding neighbourhood.

  The daddy had taken the family away on a good long holiday as soon as Cornelius was well enough to travel.

  And so now, here stood Cornelius in another dark room and the memory of that illness, so long ago, returned to him. With a vengeance.

  He sniffed tentatively and tried to make what sense he could of his surroundings. He felt himself to be in a room of considerable size. A room which contained many ancient books. The distinctive odour of their leather spines, a rich sweet musk, was heavy in the air and formed a deep background to what else lay within.

  There were many woods in the room. Cornelius recognized the light scent of polished ash, the rosey perfume of mahogany and the sombre incense of oak drifting up from the floorboards on which he had just fallen. Along with these came other essences. Burnished brass, black ink, old paper, red wine, lavender. And something less pleasant.

  Cornelius flexed his nostrils and sought the location of the abbot. But his teenage nose had lost much of its childhood cunning. The woollen cloth of the holy father’s scapula was apparent. The tunic, girdle, belt and hood. Even the sandals.

  But the habit’s inhabitant exhaled nothing that Cornelius could identify. He could tell where he was, several feet away, seated behind a walnut desk. But that was about it.

  Cornelius took a few more sniffs. But to no avail.

  ‘Do you have a cold, my son?’ the abbot asked in another whisper.

  ‘No, I’m fine really.’

  ‘Then if you will feel your way forwards there is a chair just in front of you.’

  Cornelius knew that there was. But he blundered into it anyway. ‘I can manage.’ He righted the chair and sat down upon it.

  ‘Good. Then I should like to know why you have come to Saint Sacco Benedetto.’

  ‘Well, sir.’ Cornelius shifted uneasily. The truth seemed a good enough reason. ‘Well, sir, I…’

  ‘Sir me no sirs, my son. I have also taken a vow of humility. Speak to me as you would a friend. You may call me by my Christian name.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Bud,’ whispered the abbot.

  Cornelius felt that had the light been on he would have seen that one coming.

  ‘Well…Bud. I wish to speak to one of the brothers.’

  ‘I regret that it is not permitted.’

  ‘The circumstances are somewhat exceptional. It is a matter of great importance.’

  ‘Matters which appear important beyond the cloister have little relevance within it. I am sorry I cannot help you.’

  Cornelius had hoped that his eyes might have become accustomed to the dark by now. They hadn’t. ‘Bud,’ said he, ‘the brother I wish to speak to is in considerable danger.’

  ‘Danger?’ The whisper was without tone. ‘And why should this be?’

  ‘I believe that he has certain papers in his possession. I do not understand fully their significance. But there are those who will go to almost any length to acquire them.’

  ‘Papers brought in from the outside world?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you need have no fear for the brother’s safety.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because all the brothers give up all their worldly goods when they take their vows and enter the monastery.’

  ‘Give them up? Leave them behind, do you mean?’

  ‘No. I mean give them up. To me.’

  ‘Then if the papers are here, you will have them?’

  ‘No.’ The voice was as soft and measured as ever. ‘They would all have been destroyed.’

  ‘Destroyed?’ Cornelius made a bitter face in the darkness.

  ‘By fire.’ The abbot’s whisper echoed in the void. ‘Everything. All burned.’

  ‘Auto-da-fé,’ mumbled Cornelius.

  ‘No. We sell the cars off at auction. Tell me, my son, the brother whom you seek, what is his name?’

  ‘His name?’ Cornelius paused. And then he said breezily, ‘That hardly matters now. If the papers have all been burned.’

  ‘But you said he was in danger. It would be best if you told me his name.’

  ‘I think that it would not. If anyone comes asking, you can simply tell them what you just told me. These are evil people and if you knew the brother’s name, there is no telling what they might do to extract it from you.’

  ‘Hold on.’ The whisper had a tremulous quality to it now. ‘A minute ago you would have told me his name. You would have put me in danger then.’

  ‘Oh no. If you had allowed me to speak to the brother. And he had got the papers, and he had passed them on to me, then you could have told the evil people this fact. They would have gone off in pursuit of myself and no harm would have come to yourself or the monastery. I doubt whether they would even have troubled to set it ablaze.’

  ‘Ablaze?’ There was definite alarm now in the whisper.

  ‘As they did with the town of Sheila na gigh. Perhaps you heard about that.’

  ‘Burn down the monastery?’

  ‘Much in the same way as you burned the papers. Assuming that there were any papers, of course. You would certainly have burned them, I suppose. Not perhaps put them in a vault somewhere. If, say, the brother in question had told you that they were of considerable importance and had been placed in his trust. I am only hypothesizing here, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was a bit of a silence. Cornelius twiddled his thumbs in the darkness.

  ‘I do think that I now recall certain papers,’ whispered the abbot. ‘But it is so long ago. Would they have been the work of some scholar?’

  ‘They would indeed.’

  ‘I dimly recall a name. The scholar’s name. Prune, would it be?’

  ‘Rune,’ said Cornelius. ‘Hugo Rune.’

  ‘Hugo Rune. Yes, that was it. So long ago. So very long ago.’

  In the darkness Cornelius Murphy had a very large grin on the go. ‘Perhaps I might see these papers,’ he suggested.

  ‘Out of the question, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But the monastery? The flames? The loss of innocent life?’

  ‘I might speak to the brother on your behalf. If only I could remember his name. Which I cannot.’

  ‘Tell me, Bud,’ asked Cornelius, ‘is it true that the sacred bones of Saint Sacco Benedetto are interred here at the monastery?’

  ‘Whatever has that to do with anything?’

  ‘Would they be in the vault? I still fear for the sacking of the monastery. T
hat sacrilege might occur.’

  ‘Happily the sacred bones are in Rome. Now if you will just refresh my memory as to the brother’s name, I will speak to him. And if he wishes to speak to you, then I will grant my permission. How might you be reached?’

  ‘I could just hover about in the gallery for convenience,’ Cornelius suggested.

  ‘No,’ whispered the abbot. ‘The gallery is a very dull place. You would grow bored with it in no time.’

  ‘I could take a little nap.’

  ‘Sleeping in the daytime is an unhealthy thing. You might find yourself sleep walking. Possibly you would wander to the vault and perhaps trip on the stairs. I would not wish to be responsible for any injury you might cause yourself.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Cornelius bit his lip. ‘Perhaps I might wait outside the monastery.’

  ‘I think that would be best. Now, let us hasten matters. The brother’s name. What is it?’

  ‘I think I’d better whisper it to you,’ replied the Murphy. ‘You never know who might be listening.’

  ‘Wake up, Tuppe.’ Cornelius gave his friend an urgent shake.

  ‘Ooh! Ah! Get off there! Cornelius, hello.’

  ‘Bad dream?’ Cornelius asked. ‘You were pulling at your heels.’

  ‘Something’s going on with me.’ Tuppe rubbed at his eyes and sat up.

  Cornelius scooped up the daddy’s book from the front seat. ‘I suppose you finished this before you dropped off to sleep.’

  ‘Naturally. And a right load of old codswallop it is. How did you get on at the monastery? Couldn’t get in, eh?’

  Tuppe made a smug little face.

  Cornelius ignored it.

  ‘I got in all right. But I smell deep trouble.’

  ‘You mean deeper trouble. What happened?’

  Cornelius swung into the driving seat. ‘I spoke with ‘the abbot’. He inhabits a pitch-black room. I smelt fresh blood on the floor.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘And this abbot thinks an auto-da-fé is a burning car and that Saint Sacco Benedetto was a person.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘But all isn’t quite lost yet. The phoney abbot may not know his auto-da-fe from his elbow, but he doesn’t know the name of the monk who has the papers either.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell him, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I certainly did not. Although he really wanted to know.’

  ‘So what did you tell him?’

  ‘I gave him a false name to be going on with, while we plot what to do now.’

  ‘You cunning dog, Cornelius.’

  ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ Cornelius made foolish collar preenings. ‘Tuppe. You’ll really laugh when you hear the name I gave to the false abbot.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You will, go on have a guess.’

  ‘I’m not really in a guessing sort of a mood at present.’

  ‘Oh well, please yourself. I told him it was…wait for it…ta-raaa Brother Tuppe!’

  ‘Brother what?’ Tuppe fell back in alarm.

  ‘Tuppe. Some hoot, eh?’ Cornelius collapsed in laughter.

  ‘That’s not funny. Cornelius, that is anything but funny.’

  ‘Oh come on.’ Cornelius dug his small friend in the ribs with a jolly elbow. ‘It is quite funny.’

  ‘No it’s not.’ Tuppe flapped his hands about. ‘Blood on the floor you said. Fake abbot you say. What’s happened to the real one then? Eh? Eh?’ Tuppe drew a finger across his throat in a horrific manner. ‘And you tell this…this…whoever this is…that Brother Tuppe has the papers.’

  ‘To throw him off the scent. What harm did it do?’

  ‘What harm? What harm?’ Cornelius had never seen Tuppe so animated. ‘I told you I could get us into the monastery. I said let me do it. But no, in you go. Cornelius, you have really fouled up this time.’

  ‘Why?’ Cornelius was now in some confusion. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Tuppe, ‘I could have got us into the monastery. Because my uncle is in that monastery. I was keeping it a secret. I wanted to impress you. To make you proud of me.’

  ‘Your uncle?’

  ‘My uncle. Brother Tuppe.’

  15

  All the shouting woke up Felix Henderson McMurdo.

  He yawned. Stretched. Wondered where he was. Vaguely remembered. And stumbled from his bed to peer out of the window.

  There was a right old fuss going on down in the courtyard. Monks were running all over the place, hitching up their habits and looking most distraught. Felix suddenly caught sight of a man in highland garb. He was waving a claymore. He was also shouting things such as: ‘Where is he?’ and ‘Hand him over or else!’

  Felix sank down beneath the window. He’d seen that man before. Where was it? Back at the police station, that was where. He was one of the Wild Warriors of West Lothian!

  Felix began to chew on his knuckles. What could this mean? Clearly it could mean only one thing. There could be no other logical explanation. The Wild Warrior was looking for him. The townsfolk of Sheila na gigh had obviously gone completely insane. They had sent a mercenary, a hired killer, to track him down. This was no laughing matter.

  ‘I shall have to get out of here,’ said Felix. ‘But how?’

  And then, as chance would have it, he just happened to espy nothing less than a monk’s habit (his very size) hanging on the back of the cell door.

  ‘Now,’ said Felix Henderson McMurdo. ‘That’s handy.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know?’ Cornelius threw his hands high. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘We’ll have to go down there at once.’ Tuppe drummed his fists on the dashboard. ‘Put the car in gear. We’ll smash the door down.’

  ‘That is somewhat drastic, don’t you think?’

  ‘Drastic? Who is down there, do you think? Eh, Cornelius? About to take it out of my uncle? Come on, take a little guess.’

  ‘It’s the Campbell,’ said Cornelius in a low tone. ‘Even though he was whispering, there was no mistaking that voice.’

  ‘How come this Campbell is always one step ahead of you, Cornelius?’

  The tall boy shrugged. ‘I don’t honestly know.’

  ‘Put the car in gear, Mr Murphy.’

  Mr Murphy put the car in gear.

  Felix Henderson McMurdo pulled down his cowl to shelter his face, tucked his hands into their opposite sleeves and hurried along a corridor which would have been all the better for redecoration, or demolition.

  He hadn’t gone more than a few yards, before the sound of marching feet reached his ears. There was a door to the right and one to the left. Felix chose the one to the right, turned the handle and slipped quietly away. He pressed shut the door and pressed his ear to it. The marching marched up, marched past and marched off.

  ‘Phew,’ said Felix Henderson McMurdo. ‘That was close.’

  ‘What was close?’ asked a voice.

  Felix turned in horror to view the speaker. He was a very small speaker. A miniature monk. Felix recalled a toby jug his mum once kept on the mantelshelf. He recalled also how he’d broken it.

  The monk stood upon a high stool. He had a large screwdriver in his hand and before him on a work table there was a lot of complicated electrical gubbinry. There was an awful lot of other gubbinry about the room. Stacked up on shelves. Piled into corners. It was all very broken-looking gubbinry.

  ‘Are you the repair-man from Saint Greaves?’ asked the tiny monk.

  ‘Er, yes. That’s right,’ Felix replied. ‘What needs fixing?’

  The Cadillac rolled down the hill towards Saint Sacco Benedetto.

  ‘Faster, faster,’ cried Tuppe.

  ‘No no no,’ replied Cornelius.

  ‘Yes yes yes. We have to get inside.’

  ‘I know we do. That’s why I left the door on the latch when I came out.’

  ‘It’s a karaoke machine,’ the small monk explained.

  ‘It certainly is.’ Feli
x approached the work table, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come.’ The small monk made a large and joyful face. ‘Saint Greaves promised they’d send their best man over. You’re him then, are you?’

  ‘Well actually, no.’ Felix rooted around on the work table.

  The small monk’s large and joyful face shrank away. ‘Who are you then?’

  ‘I’m a victim of circumstance.’

  ‘Ah.’ The small monk nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m one of those also.’ He reached up to Felix and shook his hand. ‘Hello anyway,’ he sighed. ‘I’m Brother Eight.’

  ‘Wotcha,’ said Felix. ‘I’m Felix.’

  ‘And I suppose you know nothing about karaoke machines.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Felix twiddled his fingers over the bench-top confusion. ‘I know all there is to know. Hand me your screwdriver.’

  The car was parked out of sight and the epic twosome came forwards through the long grass, commando fashion.

  ‘I don’t really need to crawl.’ Tuppe plucked a daisy from his teeth. ‘I could simply walk and be about the same height.’

  ‘There might be lookouts.’ Cornelius put his hand in something nasty. ‘Lookouts with guns.’

  ‘I can crawl.’ Tuppe continued to crawl. ‘What’s that funny smell?’ he asked.

  The abbot’s study was no longer in darkness. The heavy curtains had been biblically rent asunder to reveal an enormous stained-glass window of bowel-moving vulgarity.

  This depicted another saintly muscle boy. This one wore the standard wistful expression and regulation gossamer posing pouch. He was being torn between two stallions, which were in every detail anatomically correct. All about spectators looked on with appropriately glazed expressions, hands joined either in prayer or appreciation, it was hard to tell. One appeared to be reading a newspaper. Another fondled a penguin, which possibly had some masonic significance.