by Jason Foss
Tyrone nodded. ‘That all?’
‘For the moment.’ Flint was downcast. Sleeping dogs refused to lie, but continued to roll and scratch in discomfort.
Tyrone sucked the end of his fat felt pen for a whole two minutes. Then he started to draw new lines, connecting many points to one word he labelled ‘SECT’. Below this he drew a deliberately long line. At the very bottom of the wall he ended his line in a box, filled with a question mark.
He jabbed SECT with his pen. ‘This is Them: all these unknown people who are involved. There could be dozens for all we know, all as mad and fanatical as the late Piers Plant.’
‘Who is that?’ Flint kicked a toe towards the skirting board.
‘That is what is really behind all this. The thing or the person we’re not supposed to find. The thing which is being protected.’
Both contemplated the empty box, making wild, unreasoned guesses at what it might be. Hairs prickled on Flint’s neck as something crawled from his memory.
‘Beware the Horned Man.’
‘Horned Man?’
‘Something old Leopold Gratz said to me, I thought he was just being mysterious. “Beware the Horned Man, Doctor Flint,” said he. Old Amelia Winter also said something about Plant being chased by a man with horns, then there was the third wax doll at the museum: a man with horns.’
Tyrone came straight back. ‘Satan. Plant thought he had been cursed and pursued by Satan, that’s obvious.’
Flint was deflated. ‘Of course, well, we can’t have Satan arrested for complicity, can we?’
‘We could add him to the suspect list.’
‘Don’t be juvenile. How many people are on it?’
‘Fifty or so. I’m putting Amelia Winter and Mrs Plant right at the top, they’d both make good witches. I’ve got several lists, drawn from different sources: friends of Plant; relatives of Plant; members of the Dark Ants; local people with known occult interests; Lucy’s old school chums; that list your Professor Gratz gave you. I’m sure that with enough data, I could use cluster analysis to produce a hierarchy of suspicion.’
‘Is there anything behind that wad of jargon you just used?’
‘Yes, we compile a whole set of lists, based on different types of evidence, then see who occurs in most lists and get the computer to plot the relationships mathematically.’
‘Okay, but that’s not going to stand up in court, is it?’
‘No.’
After a considerable, heavy, pause, a decision was taken. ‘Look, Tyrone. Last year was a disaster, we lost Lucy and we ended up making idiots of ourselves. If we’re going to open up this bag of maggots again, let’s be sure we do it right and let’s decide now that we’re going to see it through.’
‘Fine, I’m game.’
‘So, first objective, we need to satisfy ourselves that your sect really exists.’ Flint tapped the SECT box. ‘Then we need to get these people out in the open. The question is how.’
‘What about the book?’ Tyrone suggested. ‘Plant thought De Nigris was really important, so suppose his friends do too? What happens if we get a copy and advertise it for sale?’
Flint congratulated himself on his choice of assistant. Two brains worked better than one, especially if the one was partially addled. He nodded slowly, then felt his pulse quicken. ‘If we get any reaction at all, we’re on to something.’
‘If not, we’ve lost nothing.’
‘No, and we don’t even need to find a copy.’ Flint’s depression swung round to instant mania. ‘Brilliant! All that education wasn’t wasted on you.’
‘Shall I knock up some adverts, then?’
*
That afternoon, a small ad was sent to several newspapers and posted in notable occult and antiquarian booksellers’ windows. Flint even sent one to Monica down in Kingshaven. The card she posted in her window read: ‘For sale: Eastney, John, 1698, De Nigris. Facsimile copy. Bound. Offers...’
Many people must have seen the cards and the adverts and most would have ignored them entirely or have been briefly mystified, but when Rowan’s eyes fell on the wording, it was as if her soul had suddenly plunged down a cleft in the earth. Someone was still prying, and it took little imagination to guess who. All at once she felt vulnerable and fearful for others who were still close to her. She had to speak to Him, she needed comfort and reassurance and her spirit needed rebuilding. Something different would be required this time, a sacrifice to preserve the greater good. He would never know what she had done to save Him.
Three days passed before The Poet returned from his journey, which meant three days of angry anxiety for Rowan. When at last she spoke to him on the telephone, she had made her plans and was resigned to them.
‘Ah Rowan, have you read the small ads in that rotten newspaper?’ The Poet asked calmly down the telephone.
‘I have.’ Rowan knew her voice must have lost its certain edge.
‘Can it be a coincidence?’
‘No,’ she stated, ‘someone is still nosing around.’
‘Could you find out who it is?’
‘I know who it is,’ she muttered. ‘Doctor Flint of Central College London.’
‘So, you were wrong when you stated — with deep certainty — that he had ceased to chase our shadows.’
‘I was, but I have a new idea – one that will work.’
‘No, Rowan, no more dramatics, let us sit tight. He’s clutching straws, you see. He has found this name, this book, from something Oak left behind. It will tell him nothing.’
‘You must know someone in London,’ she said, ‘someone who can do something.’
‘Yes, London, of course. I’ll see what I can do. Now, my wife is expected back shortly, so I should ring off.’
‘You still haven’t told her about us.’ Rowan fell sullen.
‘No, dear, it’s complicated, especially now. Let us wait until things fall quiet again.’
‘Promise?’
‘No promises.’
*
The freshers burst upon Central College with the usual mix of gauche exuberance and innocent wonder. Fifty new faces for Flint to recognise, fifty new names to repeatedly forget. Classes were full, the new intake was still keen and not yet succumbing to the attrition of lie-ins, hangovers and note-swapping deals. He was on his toes, breaking them in gently, taking one shuffling group after another on forays into the British Museum. College was exhilarating and hectic, social contacts were renewed and he had little time for brooding or plotting. Like a creature trapped in a Buddhist resurrection cycle, his life renewed itself each autumn.
He vacated the spare room in Jules’ house and took another in a house rented by a trio of medics. If the advert succeeded in stirring up trouble, it would be best if he made himself difficult to find. Only four nights into the new term, he was called down to the phone by a bemused medic.
‘Mr Selby?’ The medic held the receiver as if it were infected. ‘Yah, Grant Selby,’ Flint faked a suburban yuppie accent as he took up the telephone.
‘I came across your advertisement, advertising a book?’ It was a man’s voice, educated, with a slight regional accent.
‘De Nigris, yah.’
The other paused. ‘Is it genuine?’
‘A facsimile. I collect manuscripts relating to mythology. This does not quite fill my requirements.’
‘May I ask how you acquired it?’
‘Some time ago, almost by accident in a Brighton antiquarian bookstore. I believe it is closed now.’
Another pause for thought. ‘And what price would you be asking?’
Impromptu lies tumbled from Flint’s lips. ‘I have been offered two hundred pounds, but of course that’s way short of the mark.’
Silence greeted the price. Were it original, were it genuine, the book would be priceless.
‘This is the John Eastney version?’ The caller was familiar with it. Of all the casual callers who had rung that week, this one knew what he was seeking.
‘Sixteen ninety-eight, yes. A nineteenth-century facsimile. Latin. Leather bound, a little eaten at the corners, I’m afraid, and there are a few rather torn pages...’
He embellished his story whilst the man picked at details, all the time deeply sceptical and deeply knowledgeable. This was the fifth call about De Nigris. The first to respond to the advert had been Leopold Gratz, who was amused to discover who the bogus Mr Selby really was, then chattered at some length about the turn of events at Forest Farm. Two further callers had been professional enquirers, obviously mystified, wondering if they were missing a bargain. The fourth had been a woman, obviously well acquainted with the nature of the book, who asked clumsy and rather naïve questions with a distinctive Irish tone. She was called Michelle and had left her number: south London, 081 code. The fifth caller was more discreet.
‘I’ll have to think about the price,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you back… don’t sell it, will you?’
In a moment the line hung empty, with no name and no telephone number this time. Flint had sensed some indecision at the far end and it excited him. The book did not, or should not, exist; yet this was the second stranger familiar with it, and idly, he wondered how many copies he could fake and sell. Then he remembered that reverse telephone directories were on sale, enabling people to deduce addresses from telephone numbers. If his hunch was right, one or more of his callers would be interested in his whereabouts. It was time to move house again, or buy another fire extinguisher.
*
The following day, he sat at his desk, ignoring a pile of internal memoranda and concentrating on the Lucy file. His interest was growing, he could feel that a solution was within his grasp.
‘Hullo Doc.’ Tyrone came into the office without knocking. ‘Would you like to see some pictures of pots?’
‘Not really.’ Flint hardly looked up from his papers.
‘How about the name of your mystery woman?’
‘Come in, there’s a draught.’
Tyrone had also used a reverse directory to discover that the Irish woman was named Michelle Kavanagh and lived in Dulwich. She had not rung back about the book.
‘Michelle Kavanagh eh? Is she on any of your lists?’
‘No.’
Flint had her secretly pencilled in as ‘Rowan’ or ‘Hazel’. He was also aware that his unwelcome parcel post had always originated in south London.
‘I’m going to have to meet her.’
‘I will if you like,’ Tyrone said.
‘Tyrone, come on, she could be at the centre of all this. A coven needs a high priestess — it could be Lucy for all we know, but it might be this Michelle. If she’s the one posting parcel bombs, she may not be a nice person to know socially.’
‘I’ll risk it.’
‘No, I’ve lost enough students this year. You get on with those lists of suspects. Ring Vikki and ask her to root out some dirt, I’m hoping to see Monica again and ask her to keep an eye on her clientele. She put up our advert for free.’
Later that day, Flint gave his first Roman Art and Architecture lecture to the second year, then caught a bus for Dulwich. Jammed between a cross-section of London society he began to compose a character for Grant Selby and sketch out a life history. He would need to remember all his fiction and keep his act consistent, but this was something he was used to. Whenever he stood at the lecture podium, or before a camera or a microphone, he put on the act of the confident intellectual. Whenever the common room debates became heated, he slipped into the role of laid-back liberal anarchist. He remembered a lecture tour he had once guided around Rome, and a dealer in antiquities who had been a member of the party. Grant Selby had a role model to follow.
Still in his lecturer guise, he strolled along the Dulwich backstreet, with its parallel rows of parked cars and its opposing walls of terraced houses. The design was standard for the older suburbs, brick-built circa 1910, with one bay window on each floor and a slate-roofed extension at the rear housing the bathroom. A few frontages were graced by mock stone facing, and looked ridiculous. Many of the others had been divided into two flats, one on each floor, and Ms Kavanagh lived downstairs in one of these. She had decorated the windows of 37a with a dozen fetching Celtic designs painted on to small sheets of glass, but Flint dare not go closer without a disguise. His heart pumped hard as he longed to get inside the dark brown door and meet this Michelle. Who was she, and why did she know about this book?
He returned to the medics’ flat, where everything he owned was once more packed to move, then made contact through the sanitised safety of the telephone. Flint lied as he had never lied before. He had been let down, the man had failed to come up with the money, so would she like the book?
‘I’m not sure I could really afford it,’ said the soft Irish voice.
‘Can I show it to you? That might make you change your mind, this really is something special.’
Michelle Kavanagh made thinking noises, clicking with indecision. ‘Yes, it won’t hurt, will it?’
‘No, can I pop round? Where do you live?’
She caught her breath, obviously daunted by this strange male voice. ‘We could meet somewhere.’
‘Fine, any ideas?’
‘The Sunday Market at Covent Garden. I’ve got a stall.’
‘Selling?’
‘Craft jewellery, paintings, batik prints, you know.’
‘Yes, there are quite a few of those.’
‘I’ve got a little dragon pendant I fly from my stall. You can’t miss it.’
‘See you Sunday.’
Down went the receiver. Flint thumped the air with his fist. ‘Yes!’
One of the medics was squeezing past in the hallway. ‘When are you moving out?’ he joked.
‘Saturday,’ replied Flint.
Saturday would be the day of sacrifice. The rugged outdoor-man stereotype beard had to go. Cultivated over so many years it had afforded Flint a ‘real archaeologist’ look in younger days, but now it was a liability. A girl from the London School of Fashion lodged upstairs in the address he was moving into. For a pound she cut his hair short and neat, then for another she dyed it a deeper shade of brown. A bottle of instant tanning lotion of the type Vikki used sufficed to hide the join between raw cheeks and paler areas revealed by shaving off the beard.
From one of the cardboard boxes which filled the floor of his new attic bedroom, he fished out an older prescription pair of spectacles: gold-rimmed and square. The world fuzzed around the edges, but with a little eye-strain, he would get by. Tyrone had loaned him a car coat, a little large across the chest, but it suited Grant Selby’s image. Flint critically assessed the new man in the dressing-table mirror: neat, smart, almost trendy. The thought revolted him.
*
Sunday morning was kind to the market. In autumnal warmth, tourists mingled with Londoners out for a bargain and new students out sampling the big city. Flint wore the car coat and a new personality. He both looked, and felt, like a spiv seeking to unload a bundle of nylons on the unsuspecting girl below the little dragon.
He could absorb research like a sponge. Occult and New Age literature had been consumed and digested in bulk, sceptical and analytical approaches to the subject had also been fodder for his mind. The psychology of those who placed faith in the paranormal had been a vital ingredient in his research. He had learned that certain people, of certain backgrounds, of certain states of mind could be drawn towards the occult. The insecure, the inadequate, the frustrated and the dissatisfied had always been attracted by counter-culture.
Placing a mirror against what he knew, Flint felt he could almost draw a personality profile of the woman before they even met and Michelle fitted the part. Squinting just a shade, he judged her as being heavier that she would wish to be. She was probably in her late twenties, large-boned, with a broad, sun-warmed face. Her hair was black and long, mingling with the shawl around the shoulders. Flint had always been attracted by sharp minds rather than superficial appea
rance, but he remembered he was Grant Selby, the man in the car coat. Michelle was not Selby’s type – her neck was too fleshy, her chin almost double and every aspect of her clothing and manner screamed against established order.
Unaware she was being analysed, Michelle Kavanagh looked one way then the other at the would-be clientele. She seemed bored, even alone, but then, the text books said she would be. Flint composed his image, then strolled across and picked up a pair of dragon earrings. They had been hand-crafted from some modelling medium then baked and painted a translucent green.
‘These are splendid – do you make them yourself?’ Grant Selby had been given a languid, self-satisfied voice.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I make all these; everything you see.’
She had talent. He looked up at the silk scarves painted in pastel blues or vivid red-and-golds.
‘I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Grant Selby.’ He began to regret the name, it had dropped from a route atlas and seemed as good as any other.
‘Ah?’ She tried to place both name and face.
‘You rang about a book, De Nigris?’
‘Oh, oh yes.’ She was either embarrassed, or excited, or both.
‘Actually, I came to apologise. I sold it this morning, just before I was due to come here. The man came back to me after all, with a much improved offer and cash in hand, so of course I had to take it. Sorry.’
‘Oh.’ She managed a little laugh. ‘I probably couldn’t afford it anyway.’
‘No, it was rather expensive in the end.’
‘So why did you come?’
‘To apologise. I thought that book might mean a great deal to you.’
‘No, not at all.’
Keep up some momentum, he told himself, so Flint found a new item on her stall to pick up and admire. While he talked, he was observing. This could not be the high priestess, she had a nervousness which would prohibit her from posting dismembered animals. Michelle bobbed her head to one side when he praised her work, with a lack of sophistication the real Grant Selby would have found repellent. She had an air of despair about her, an air which fought against the gaiety of her designs. Celtic and fantastic, dragons and wizards. Michelle was another dreamer who found reality a little too dull to bear. He talked and kept talking.
