Waking the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  Charters extinguished the lamp and tried, in vain, to sleep.

  * * * *

  The next morning, he found Sullivan smoking his pipe in the Senior Common Room.

  “Good morning, Charters. Oh, I say, your eyes are bloodshot. Have you slept at all?”

  Charters shook his head and thrust the bag he was carrying at his colleague.

  “What’s that?”

  “A cobra.”

  “What?”

  Charters told him about the previous night. Sullivan listened, increasingly wide-eyed.

  “And you believe Quintillus is responsible?”

  “I don’t see how, but I can’t think of any other explanation. I saw him down in the quadrangle and then no more than a few minutes later, I was facing a cobra.”

  “Not even Quintillus is capable of getting through a locked door without a key.”

  “Do you know, Sullivan, at this moment, if you told me he could do precisely that, I would be inclined to believe you.”

  “Steady on, old man. Sit down. Have a brandy.”

  “It’s far too early for brandy.”

  “I would make an exception this time. You’ve had a terrible shock. Look, sit here.” He indicated a deep leather armchair. “I’ll get rid of the bag for you and then we’ll both have a medicinal brandy. I feel I could do with one too after what you’ve told me.”

  Too weary to protest, Charters did as his friend told him. Sullivan took the bag and undid it just enough to see the scaly, blood-soaked body. “Good God. Lucky you had that sword. If you hadn’t…”

  “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here now telling you all about it. This is serious, Sullivan. An attempt has been made on my life.”

  “And in such a bizarre way, too.”

  “Really? Think about it. The cobra is indigenous to Egypt, among other places, and associated with Isis, Cleopatra’s favorite goddess.”

  Sullivan nodded thoughtfully. “I can see your logic, but what possible reason would Quintillus have for wanting to kill you? He would gain nothing. At least you are allowing him to pursue his wild goose chase. With you gone, your successor might block him.”

  “True, but he would simply dispose of him, too. I have long suspected Quintillus to be capable of almost anything. I sense not one ounce of humanity in him. He knows I don’t trust him and that I actively dislike him. Nor do I approve of his methods and highly questionable standards of professionalism. He may perceive me as a threat, or simply hate me enough to want to take revenge for my attempts to thwart him. Who really knows what goes on in that twisted imagination of his?”

  “I still cannot fathom how he got into your room. Unless he let himself in much earlier and secreted the snake somewhere.”

  “That may be the case, but I’d been in my room all evening. You joined me for a glass of port after dinner and, after you left, I went directly to bed. I woke suddenly and I’m sure there had been a noise in my room.”

  “It couldn’t have been from outside?”

  Charters considered this for a moment. At the time, he hadn’t been too bothered about where the noise had come from, or what it sounded like but now, reflecting back, he remembered.

  “I’m almost certain someone threw gravel against my window,” he said.

  “Did you see them?”

  “No, but I’m sure that’s what woke me.”

  “And Quintillus was out in the quadrangle?”

  “Yes.”

  Sullivan sighed. “I think we should see the provost. And I don’t think I should dispose of the…” He shook the bag at Charters. “Evidence.”

  Charters slammed his fists down hard on the arms of the chair. “Good God, man, if he can try to murder me when I haven’t made trouble for him, whatever do you think he’ll do when he learns we were the ones to land him in Queer Street with the provost? Come to that, involving Sir Henry could put his life in danger, too, especially if it is decided that there is a case to answer and this goes to the Governing Body.”

  “So what do you suggest, then?”

  Charters chewed his lip. “The only thing we can do is see how he reacts when he discovers his plot hasn’t succeeded. I intend to go about my business as normal and say nothing of it to him or anyone else. Naturally, now I shall be on my guard, and that sword won’t be far from my side either. At least when I’m in my rooms.”

  Sullivan looked at him as if he had inexplicably grown an extra head. “And what do you propose to do with the snake?”

  “Burn it.”

  “Burn it?”

  “Yes. What else am I to do with it? I’m hardly going to waft it under his nose and gloat, am I? Besides, he would deny all knowledge of it.”

  Sullivan seemed tormented by conflicting thoughts. A frown created deep furrows on his forehead. “Very well. If that’s your final word, I’ll go and deal with it now before the thing starts stinking.”

  “Thank you, Sullivan. I appreciate your discretion.”

  “I can only hope you don’t live to regret it.”

  * * * *

  “Ah, Quintillus.” Charters felt certain the man’s eyebrows raised at the unexpected sight of him in the Senior Common Room.

  “Professor,” he said, returning his attention to The Times.

  Charters lit a cigar and forced himself to sit in his usual armchair. A fire crackled in the hearth and he added an extra log. Sap sizzled and spat as the flames licked the wood.

  Neither man spoke. Charters would have loved to know what thoughts ran through Quintillus’s mind at that point. Presently, the man stood, folded and replaced the newspaper on a table, and left without a word.

  Charters shifted in his seat. With Quintillus’s departure, the atmosphere had become lighter, less dense. A sudden movement in the hearth caught his eye. An iridescent flash of metallic black and green. A beetle. Not just any beetle. Charters bent down to get a closer look at the insect, which lay motionless. Perplexed, he stood. What on earth would a scarab be doing in the Senior Common Room?

  Charters glanced over to the door. Quintillus. It had to be his doing. The man was a magician, able to conjure at will. He looked down at the hearth again.

  The beetle had vanished.

  That night, Charters locked his door as usual and wedged a chair under the handle. He checked his windows, ensuring they were shut tightly. Then he made a systematic check of his rooms, looking under chairs, in cupboards and under the bed. Satisfied, he made ready for bed. Lack of sleep the night before made his eyes grow heavy early. The quadrangle clock chimed ten times. Charters yawned, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Lying there in the dark, he listened. The normal peace and tranquility of Hereford College comforted him, and he soon drifted off to sleep.

  He awoke in the dark, to something tickling his nose. He brushed it away without opening his eyes. It returned. Now it tried to get into his ear. He batted it away, conscious of touching something hard and shell-like. He was instantly awake and out of bed. With shaking hands, he lit his oil lamp and shone it over the sheets. The scarab darted across the mattress and out of sight.

  Charters stripped the bed, but despite examining every inch, he could find no trace of the beetle. Conscious of his bare feet, he located his slippers and put his right foot in, then his left. A sharp bite sent a knife of pain tearing through his body. He tossed the slipper off and with it, the beetle. Before it could scurry away, he squashed it under his slippered right foot. Reeling with pain, he sat on the bed and lifted his foot up. His big toe had already started to swell and burn, and had turned bright red. Leaning on the furniture for support, Charters made his way to his bathroom where he ran cold water in the bath and sat on the edge, his feet immersed. The pain gradually lessened to a dull throb, but by now the toe had doubled in size. On top of the shock he had just received, a new fear asserted itself. W
hat if that creature had given him blood poisoning?

  More of Quintillus’s handiwork, no doubt. Maybe he had fed the thing in under the door. Charters wrung out a facecloth, patted his feet dry and hobbled back to the bedroom. The squashed scarab still lay on the floor. Before he climbed back into bed, he stuffed some towels at the base of the door. He took a couple of aspirin and lay down, elevating his injured foot as best he could until exhaustion took over and he fell asleep.

  The next morning, his toe still inflamed and throbbing, he took more aspirin and retrieved a walking stick from the wardrobe. It had come in handy when he had sprained his ankle a couple of years ago, and he once again pressed it into service.

  Wearing slippers, he hobbled into the Senior Common Room to find Sullivan drinking coffee and Quintillus once again engrossed in a newspaper. At the sight of him, Sullivan set down his coffee cup. “Charters, old man, whatever’s happened?”

  Charters felt Quintillus’s eyes burning into him. He forced his voice to remain light. “A slight accident with a beetle. I came off worst.” Much as he wanted to, he avoided looking directly at Quintillus. Let the man wonder how much he had guessed.

  Sullivan fussed around his friend, taking him by the arm. “Come and sit down. Tell me what you want for breakfast and I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “Not terribly hungry this morning, old chap. Just some scrambled egg, a slice of toast, and a cup of strong coffee, please.”

  Quintillus stood. “You should be careful of insect bites. They can become infected.”

  “I don’t remember mentioning I had been bitten. Merely that I had had an accident with one.”

  Quintillus didn’t even blink. “I assumed from the way you were walking. My advice holds true. Be very careful. The consequences can be fatal.”

  He left.

  Sullivan placed Charters’ breakfast in front of him. “What do you suppose that’s all about?”

  “A warning. Clear as a bell. I have just been warned not to meddle with him, or suffer the consequences.”

  “That’s hardly a warning. That’s a threat. We have to see the provost now. He can’t get away with it.”

  “No, Sullivan.”

  His friend flinched at the vehemence punctuating his words.

  “Oh, Sullivan, I do apologize. That was unforgiveable of me. Especially after your kindness, but I must insist. No good will come of reporting this. The man is sly, manipulative, and highly intelligent. Whatever you do to him, you receive back threefold—at least. Best leave well alone. I have a feeling if we do so, he’ll think he’s made his point and move on.”

  Sullivan poured himself more coffee.

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”

  * * * *

  Over the next week, Charters’s toe gradually returned to its normal size and color. It stopped throbbing and he could consign the walking stick to the back of the wardrobe.

  Nothing more happened, and even Sullivan began to acknowledge that Charters had probably been right. February became March, and with it came the end of term. The students left the college for their Easter vacation and Charters settled down to his comfortable non-term routine of research and working on his latest paper on Babylonian culture.

  Sullivan had left for a couple of weeks at his home in the Cotswolds and, not having a great deal in common with his fellow academics who chose to remain at Hereford, Charters spent most of his time alone, in his room or in the library. Only at mealtimes did he join the others when, three times a day, he would encounter Quintillus. He too had little to say. One such lunchtime, Charters was a few minutes late in arriving. Quintillus had eaten and left shortly after. A science professor—Longworth—tapped him on the shoulder as he ate his cottage pie. “May I join you, Charters?”

  “By all means.” He indicated a chair and the elderly professor sat, with some difficulty.

  “That chap—Quintillus—one of yours, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not a great deal, to be honest. I know he holds a clutch of degrees from various European universities and his research area is ancient Egypt, more particularly Cleopatra’s Egypt. Why do you ask?”

  The professor moved closer and spoke in a hushed voice. “The damnedest thing. The chap has rooms adjoining mine and I often hear him. Chanting. Can’t understand a word he says but it’s definitely chanting. Not only that, there are these queer smells. Lilies sometimes, and that’s not too bad, but other times, to put no finer point on it, there are occasions where I would swear he had a corpse in there, however ridiculous that may sound.”

  “No, Professor, I’m afraid it doesn’t sound ridiculous at all. Not to me.”

  “I don’t want to be the harbinger of doom, old man, but I think you’ve got a problem with that one. How long has he been here?”

  “Three years. Three long years. I wasn’t aware he had taken rooms. I thought he lived in lodgings somewhere in town. Although, if I’m being honest, I don’t think I ever gave his abode much thought.”

  “He only moved next door at the beginning of term. Since then, I’ve been plagued by all sorts of annoying events. The chanting and the smells I mentioned. Then one day, half a dozen beetles suddenly appeared in my hearth. Goodness alone knows how they got in. Looked foreign, too. I reported the infestation but blow me if they hadn’t all disappeared when the chap turned up to fumigate. Of course, I probably shouldn’t blame him for that. I mean, how could he cause a plague of beetles?” Longworth threw back his snowy head and guffawed. He stopped short. Charters knew it was because of the expression on his face.

  “You do think he’s responsible, don’t you?”

  “I believe he is very dangerous when crossed. I don’t know how or why, and I have no real evidence to go on, but I believe he is determined to do me harm. A cobra appeared in my room and a beetle bit me rather badly. In both cases, I was able to dispose of the creature concerned, but you tell me what a cobra is doing here, in the residences of Oxford University?”

  “My dear man, you must report your fears to the provost. At once.”

  “If I believed it would do any good, I would. As things stand, it could only serve to make things worse for me, and possibly others. He is off on a dig in Egypt in June. At least that gives me the summer to decide what to do about him.”

  Longworth shifted uncomfortably. He smoothed his moustache. “All I can do is wish you well, and keep you informed of any other strange activities.”

  “Thank you, I would appreciate that.”

  “Don’t mention it. Take care of yourself, old man.”

  * * * *

  “Good gracious, Lizzie. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Charters stepped back to allow his niece to enter his study.

  The slim girl with shining hazel eyes almost skipped in. Her attractive face was further enhanced by the broad smile that gave the impression she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Charters indicated a chair by the fire and she arranged herself on it.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure, my dear?”

  “Didn’t Papa tell you? I’m studying ancient history here—at Lady Rhona Ray College.”

  Charters searched his memory. “No, I don’t believe he did. I’m sure I would have remembered. But surely you haven’t just arrived? It’s the end of Hilary.”

  “Oh no, I started at Michaelmas, but I’ve been so busy with lectures and studies. And, all right, I confess, there have been some social events, too. I did pop over a couple of times, but I never caught you in. I suppose I should have left a note, but it didn’t occur to me. Sorry, Uncle.”

  She smiled her brilliant smile and won Charters over. She’d always had the power to do that, ever since she’d been a tiny baby, all pink and giggling. His only niece and goddaughter. Why on earth hadn’t Ernest told him? Of course, h
is brother was a noted eccentric. He frequently went out of his house in all weathers without a hat or coat, and now Charters came to think of it, he couldn’t actually remember when the two had last exchanged correspondence, let alone talked to each other. He made a mental note to rectify that. It wasn’t as if there had been any bad blood between them.

  “How is your father?” he asked.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Oh, just as vague as ever. Always writing down mathematical equations. Something to do with pi, I think. He’s trying to solve it, or prove it, or whatever they call it. All I know is there are papers all over the house awash with the most fearfully long rows of numbers. It’s pretty much all he talks about.”

  “And your mother?” An image of a pretty woman with brown hair, not unlike Lizzie, sprang into his mind—the only thing he and his brother had ever really disagreed on and fallen out over. Charters saw her first, but his brother won the prize. Even now, twenty-five—no thirty—years on, he still felt a pang of regret for what might have been. Since then no other woman had even come close to the standard set by the enigmatic Flora Harmsworth.

  The smile had left Lizzie’s face. “She doesn’t approve.”

  “Of what?”

  “Me coming here. To Oxford. To study. She thinks it is quite unladylike and that I should be staying at home, going to parties and surrounding myself with eligible young men. I’m afraid we had words about it and we’re not getting along very well. When I do go home, which isn’t often, I try to steer clear of her as much as possible. Mealtimes are a bit of a strain. She and I are polite in a forced kind of way and Papa hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, so he sits there staring at his soup.”

  “Good gracious, what a picture you paint.”

  Back came the smile. “It’ll sort itself out with time. I think she’s finally beginning to understand that I won’t change my mind. I am determined to complete my studies, even if—being a woman—I’m not allowed to graduate. Anyway, I’ve come to talk to you about something else. Do you know Dr. Emeryk Quintillus?”