The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  Guy hadn’t realized it was getting so late. Evening was already drawing in as he left the museum with Miss Manners. She gave him the details of the meeting—more boring discussions about priorities and funding. He could see why Brinkman didn’t want to go.

  “Are you all right?” Miss Manners was asking as they reached the road. “Guy?”

  Her use of his Christian name pulled him back to reality. “Sorry. Had a rather … strange afternoon, that’s all.”

  She listened patiently and without comment as he described the incident with the bracelet. When he was finished, Guy was breathing heavily. The whole thing had unsettled him more than he realized.

  As Guy was talking they had walked back toward Oxford Street. At the corner of the Tottenham Court Road, Miss Manners said: “There’s a pub just up there that I used to go to with some associates. A long time ago, but I would hope it’s still standing.”

  Guy smiled. “Are you asking me for a drink?”

  She peered at him seriously over the top of her spectacles. “You look and sound as if you need one. But if you’d rather not…”

  The pub was indeed still standing, although several of the buildings nearby on Windmill Street had been hit and were boarded up. Miss Manners led the way to a secluded booth toward the back of the main bar.

  “I can’t stay long,” she said when Guy returned with her gin and tonic and a pint of bitter. “I need to get to the YMCA this evening.”

  “You staying there?” Guy asked. As he said it, he remembered what Sarah had told him when they first met—about Miss Manners trip to the YMCA and her photography.

  “Heavens no. I need to collect some photographs they’ve developed for me.”

  “The YMCA? Not the local chemist’s?”

  “Yes.” She raised her eyebrows at his bewilderment. “Before the war I used to photograph gardens mainly. Plants and flowers. Landscapes. Old houses too, especially if…” She hesitated, and took a sip of her drink. “I like to think I became quite good at it,” she said.

  Guy nodded. “I should have guessed from the way you looked at those pictures of Suffolk that Sarah got taken from the air.”

  She sipped at her drink. “Now I mainly photograph people.”

  “People? You mean, just anyone who looks interesting?”

  She smiled. It wasn’t something Guy had seen happen often, but it transformed Miss Manners suddenly from stern, efficient secretary into an attractive young woman. “The YMCA organize a thing called ‘Snapshots from Home,’ perhaps you’ve heard of it? When you were away on service?”

  He shook his head. “So what does it entail?”

  “After your time perhaps. Servicemen abroad can fill in a form to ask for photographs of their loved ones. Family—wife, children. Even pets. The YMCA sorts out the forms and allocates them to local amateur photographers, like me.”

  “And you photograph the loved ones. Or pets.”

  “That’s right. The YMCA develop the films, and then I send the photographs back to the troops.”

  Guy thought back to his own time away from home. You certainly made good friends from the people you were with, but that was no substitute for home life. “I bet they really appreciate it,” he said.

  “Oh they do,” she agreed. “I get letters of thanks from all over the world. I keep them all,” she added. “It’s so hard being away from the one you love.”

  Guy wasn’t sure how or if to respond to this. But before he could decide, Miss Manners frowned. She seemed to stiffen, looking past Guy toward the bar.

  “We shouldn’t have come here,” she said quietly. “And now it’s too late—he’s seen us.”

  “What?” Guy turned to see who she meant. A large man was making his way toward them. He was broad-shouldered and bald, with a long face and cold, deep-set eyes. He wore a light gray suit and a bow tie which provided an elegance at odds with his thuggish demeanor.

  Another man was with him, younger with a curl of dark hair hanging over one eye and a cruel set to his mouth. Two women watched anxiously from the bar. One was middle-aged and overweight, wearing a dress that might have suited her when she was younger and slimmer. The other was about the same age as the younger man—perhaps in her late twenties, wearing a plain gray skirt and jacket. Her dark hair was cut short like a schoolboy’s.

  “Who are they?” Pentecross hissed as the two men approached—quite clearly heading for the booth where he and Miss Manners were sitting.

  “The young man is Rutherford. A very unpleasant character,” she said quietly. She didn’t have time to tell him more before the men were within earshot.

  “If it isn’t the lovely Penelope,” Rutherford said. His voice was a nasal twang that instantly irritated Guy.

  “Mr. Rutherford,” she replied calmly. “Not been called up yet, then?”

  “Flat feet,” he said, grinning at the evident lie.

  “We have missed you, my dear,” the older man said. His voice was surprisingly cultured, matching his suit rather than his face.

  “I can’t honestly say the same.”

  The man nodded to acknowledge the remark. “A new beau?” he asked, looking at Guy.

  “We’re colleagues,” Guy said. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  The man ignored him, saying to Miss Manners: “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “No,” she said.

  The man smiled. “How is life as an underpaid office assistant?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she countered. “How is life as the wickedest man in the world?”

  “Between you and me, there’s a lot of competition these days.” The man stretched his neck out, turning his head first one way then the other like a giant, bald turtle. “But before we leave you in peace, I just wanted to warn you, Penelope.”

  “Warn me?”

  The man leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. “Don’t meddle with things you don’t comprehend. Don’t try to understand the sacred artifacts or rites. The Vril will not be trifled with, young lady. Remember that.”

  “The Vril?” Guy echoed. “What do you mean?”

  The man turned his head toward him, not moving the rest of his body. It should have looked awkward and clumsy, but there was something unpleasantly sinister about the movement.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you, Major Pentecross.” He smiled at Guy’s obvious surprise at the use of his name. “I’m sorry, Miss Manners never did introduce us, did she?”

  He straightened up and offered his hand. Guy instinctively shook it—the man’s grip was firm but his skin was cold and moist.

  “Aleister Crowley,” the man said. “At your service.”

  CHAPTER 31

  They sat in silence for several moments after Crowley and the others had gone.

  Miss Manners drained the rest of her drink. “Even his own mother called him ‘the Beast.’ And she meant it.”

  “How did he know us?” Guy wondered. “How did he know we were here?”

  She stood up, reaching for her coat. “We should go. It may have been coincidence that he found us. Or maybe he’s having me watched. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Guy followed her out. “I didn’t see anyone following us.”

  “He doesn’t have to follow people to know what they’re doing.”

  “And why would he want to know what you’re doing?”

  The evening was drawing in and it was noticeably cooler. There was a hint of rain in the air.

  “I knew him,” Miss Manners admitted. “I was one of his ‘set’ for a while. Not a happy time. Not something I’m proud of.”

  They had reached the corner of the Tottenham Court Road when a figure hurried up to them. It was the younger, short-haired woman who had been with Crowley. She looked round nervously as she approached.

  “Penelope—can we talk?”

  “Of course, Jane.”

  The woman, Jane, gestured for them to follow her into a side street. She looked round
again, obviously afraid they were being watched.

  Miss Manners introduced Guy. “You can trust him,” she added.

  Jane smiled nervously. “Thank you.”

  “Why don’t you tell us how we can help,” Guy said. “Jane, was it?”

  “Jane Roylston. Penelope and I know each other from … a while ago. Only she managed to escape.”

  “Oh?”

  “I left,” Miss Manners said. “You can leave too, Jane. Just go.”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head rapidly. “No, I could never do that.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To warn you. He’s getting worse, Pen. I didn’t think it was possible, but he is. That’s why I can’t leave. He’d never let me, and that brute Ralph…” She pronounced it “Rafe.”

  “Ralph Rutherford,” Miss Manners told Guy. “I told you he was a bad sort.”

  “I have to get back,” Jane said. “But, be careful. I don’t know if it helps, but Crowley is in touch with something, some force. It takes over the séances, and he claims it speaks to him. Today a glass…” She shook her head again. “Never mind. I just thought you should know.”

  “What force?” Guy asked. “What can you tell us about it?”

  “I don’t know, not really. He tells me nothing. But he calls it the Vril. You know, like in that book.”

  “The Coming Race?” Miss Manners said, glancing at Guy.

  “Yes. It was fun at first, all this…” She sighed, glancing round again. “You were right to get out of it, Pen.”

  “Call me,” Miss Manners said. “It’s been too long, Jane. Far too long. Call me if you discover anything, anything at all.”

  Jane was shaking her head. “I … I can’t. If he found out.”

  “He didn’t before. You helped me last year. That was important, it really did help—more than you can ever know.”

  Jane frowned. She took a deep breath. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Don’t take any risks,” Miss Manners warned. “But anything you can tell us about the Vril, about what they’re up to—it will help.”

  “I have to go.” Jane hurried out of the side street and disappeared among the people making their way down Tottenham Court Road toward the tube station.

  “You think she’ll tell us anything?” Guy asked.

  “She did before. It was Jane who warned us about Shingle Bay.”

  * * *

  Brinkman summoned Guy, Sarah and Davenport to a meeting in the Conference Room the next afternoon.

  “Miss Manners has told me all about your run-in with Crowley,” he told Guy.

  Guy had already recounted the event to the others. “He did seem rather concerned about our work,” Guy said. “Though how he knows about it…”

  “A lot of it is bluff, I imagine,” Davenport said. “He has many friends in important places. And he may also have some genuine mystical or occult ability.”

  “Miss Manners is convinced he does,” Brinkman said. “And he knew about Shingle Bay before it happened.”

  “Could he be a German spy?” Sarah asked.

  “Unlikely,” Brinkman told them. “He seems dedicated to the war effort. He’s offered to help the intelligence services, which is partly why MI5 told me I was wasting my time and theirs when I suggested they keep tabs on him last year after Shingle Bay.”

  “Didn’t he organize a group of witches to go down to Beachy Head and put a curse on the Luftwaffe or something?” Davenport said. “For all the good it did.”

  “You say that, but we did beat them,” Guy pointed out.

  “I think we can agree that Crowley knows something of the Vril, and may even be in communication with them somehow,” Brinkman said. “Although it doesn’t sound as if he was terribly forthcoming, he may know more about them than we do. He’s warned us not to interfere, and not to study their artifacts. I take that as an indication that we should do both. We’re clearly making some progress, perhaps even on the brink of a breakthrough, or he’d not be warning us off.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Davenport asked. “Keep buggering on, as the great man says? I gather from Guy that Mrs. Archer has made some interesting progress with that bracelet Miss Diamond found.”

  “I’ll try to get Crowley under surveillance,” Brinkman told them. “I’ll ask Special Branch rather than MI5—Alban’s still angling to get us closed down. Witch hunting might give him more ammo.”

  “And the rest of us?” Sarah asked.

  “It sounds like the artifacts could be key. There’s nothing more to be learned from Suffolk. But Streicher’s team might still be excavating the French site, don’t you think?”

  Davenport nodded. “It’s on a bigger scale. Streicher seemed to be a stickler for procedure. They shipped out everything they’ve recovered so far, as we know. But even if they’re not still working there themselves, I would think there’s more to be found.”

  “Good.” Brinkman stood up. “Then you’d better get back there. At the very least you can take a look at the layout and construction of the place, even if they’ve cleared everything out. Miss Diamond can drop you off.”

  “Drop me off?” Davenport was aghast. “Are you seriously suggesting I parachute into occupied France?”

  “You’ll be fine. Major Pentecross will be with you.”

  This was news to Guy.

  “You speak French, don’t you?” Brinkman said. “And German?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “There you are, then.”

  “I’ve never made a parachute jump, though,” Guy protested.

  Brinkman was unimpressed. “You’d better hope Miss Diamond can find somewhere safe and convenient to land.”

  * * *

  They flew through the night. Guy found himself volunteered to sit in the cramped, cold dorsal turret and man the rear machine gun. The only other armament in the Avro Anson was the front machine gun, another .303 which Sarah promised she could manage herself.

  “I guess you’ve been trained to defend yourself against an enemy attack when delivering planes for the ATA,” Guy said.

  She laughed. “There’s a very real possibility of attack, but if it happens you just get the hell out of there. If it’s one of the girls flying, then they don’t arm the guns.”

  “You’re joking,” Davenport said. But she wasn’t.

  “Don’t worry,” she assured them. “Part of the act in the flying circus was shooting at a target. I was quite good at it. That and dropping flour bombs into a circle painted on the grass. But you shouldn’t be so surprised I know how to shoot,” Sarah added. “I’m half American, remember?”

  “But which half?” Davenport murmured to Guy as they boarded.

  Davenport made himself comfortable in the cargo bay. He’d brought a book on Greek mythology and a flashlight together with several blankets.

  “You’ve done this sort of thing before,” Guy realized.

  “Several times. Still makes me feel sick though.”

  “I didn’t mean flying.”

  “Neither did I.”

  They had an escort of two Hurricanes to see them over the channel. But as the dark mass of France appeared on the horizon, the fighters banked away and headed for home. Guy twisted in his tiny seat to watch them go. They were on their own now.

  The plane seemed incredibly slow, incredibly noisy, and incredibly cold. Guy kept his hand nervously on the gun housing, and after several hours he began to wonder if he would ever be able to remove it. He was wearing gloves, but even so his fingers were so cold they might have frozen in place. He wasn’t sure he could even press the firing button.

  “All right up there?” Davenport yelled from below.

  “No,” Guy called back. “I’m cold and cramped and desperate for a piss.”

  “Well see if you can hang on a bit longer. The pilot says to tell you we’ll be over the landing zone in about ten minutes. So let’s hope we can find a big field.”

  * * *

  “
They usually send me over in a Lysander,” Davenport said. “It can land on a sixpence. Well, not actually on a sixpence, but it needs rather less space than that old thing.”

  “I wasn’t given the option,” Sarah told him. “Now I’ve got to turn this thing round and get airborne again before anyone comes to see what the noise is.”

  “You got enough fuel to make it back?” Guy asked.

  “It’s a bit late now if I haven’t.”

  She left the engine running and went back with them to the cargo door. Davenport jumped out first, landing with practiced ease on the grass below. Before Guy could follow, Sarah pulled him into a sudden unexpected but welcome hug.

  “Be safe,” she said.

  “You too.”

  Guy wanted to stay like this, feeling the heat of her warm his own chilled body. But almost at once she let go and stepped back.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Guy said.

  Sarah gave a quick nod. “Go on. Leo’s waiting. And I need to close the door.”

  Guy watched as the Anson turned awkwardly in front of them. Sarah waved from the cockpit, then the engine roared and the plane started across the field, gathering speed until at what seemed like the last possible moment it lifted ponderously into the air. They could still hear the engine long after it disappeared into the darkness.

  “I hope she’ll be all right,” Guy said.

  “She’s good,” Davenport assured him. “The way she handles that thing she could give a one-oh-nine a run for its money.”

  “Let’s pray she doesn’t have to. So, what now?”

  “We find somewhere to hide until morning. Even with decent identity papers we don’t want to get stopped.”

  “Are they decent papers?” Guy asked. He had memorized the French name he’d been given together with some basic background information. He was Maurice Renan, an academic who was accompanying the American professor Carlton Smith.

  “Only one way to find out, and that’s to put them to the test,” Davenport said. “Which is a bit drastic. Especially if they’re not much cop after all.”

  “Great. And what do we do tomorrow? Look for your German?”

  “Not sure how pleased he’ll be to see me, but yes we’ll head for the dig and see if Standartenfuhrer Streicher is still in evidence.”