by Jason Foss
So Monica was apparently content with the quiet interest he had shown and she had returned to Kingshaven alone. Flint felt better for the evening with the mature woman, it prepared him mentally for the next night with Michelle. Whatever transpired, whatever the cost, he had to get back into her room and inside her mind.
*
On his next visit to Michelle’s flat, it was as chaotic as he had remembered it. They planned to see a revival of The Rocky Horror Show, and Flint had called early. Michelle had met him in a saffron bath wrap, kissed him fruitily, then left him alone in her room as she went to shower. Her new lover sat on her second-hand black patent leather sofa and moved his attention from one to another of five paintings signed ‘Michelle’. One was a self-portrait, in which she cast herself as a tall, thin seductress on a rain-swept down. For Flint, there was too much grey, too much heavy black rain. She must have been really depressed when she slashed it into existence.
He wondered how safe he was, sleeping with a woman whose mind seemed set on another plane. She had told him about the attempted overdose when her drunken ex-lover had walked out a year before. She had told him a group of friends had saved her, but offered no detail about who they were.
Flint padded across to the loosely nailed planks beside the chimney breast which served as bookshelves. Art books replaced archaeology texts, but otherwise, this could have been Lucy’s collection. One spine caught his eye, a book of poetry, entitled Eyes on a Clear Day by R. Temple-Brooke. He pulled it out, smiling at the pretentious photograph of a tweed-jacketed man posing against a tree trunk. He stopped smiling; Lucy had owned this same collection of New Age doggerel. He flicked to the first page.
‘To Willow, with love — R.T.B.’
Hazel? Willow? Rowan? A hand seized his heart and stayed there. He had been right; Michelle was close to the centre of whatever was going on. One hunch, one lucky break as Bogart might have said, and he had broken through.
Michelle came from the shower, rubbing her hair with a towel, another inadequately draped around her breasts.
‘This any good?’ Flint showed her the book.
‘Yes. I find poetry very relaxing, don’t you?’
‘Of course. I’ve never heard of this guy though.’
‘Oh he’s marvellous, I’ve heard him recite.’
‘Where?’ Perhaps the question shot out of him a little too sharply.
‘Oh, at festivals. You know I’m really into the New Movement. I go to sell things. He swapped me this book for one of my dragon plaques at Glastonbury.’
He tried to recall having seen her at the poetry reading. Perhaps she had sat next to the girl with the Apache jacket.
‘Is Willow your middle name?’ Flint played at playing with the dedication.
She discoloured. ‘It was a sort of in-joke.’
Michelle went to dress, leaving Flint in a state of high excitement. Everything was coming together wonderfully, and at last he had a good idea who Hazel was.
Chapter 20
Rowan knelt within her special room. Naked, she wore only the protection of the pentagram. She gazed up at the sky she had painted herself and concentrated with all her power. She was like a householder who sees a line of damp above the skirting board, and without the skill to arrest it, watches the decay advance up the wall day by day. First the wallpaper is stained, then the plaster bursts, then the very fabric of the house comes under threat. What was Flint doing? What could he know? She knew beyond doubt that he was ferreting around again, possibly at random, possibly with something certain to work on. Samhain was drawing close; it was the date by which she had to act.
*
Tyrone was aware of Rowan only as a name. He had a role for her, too, but as yet he had not connected the pair. Part of the time he spent in the computer suite he was constructing his bibliography for Late Roman Britain. At intervals, he switched to the directory of files labelled LUCY.
It was late on a Wednesday, the day which most London University students took as sacrosanct, but Tyrone would skip sports and society meetings to have the run of the computer room and a quiet library. A pile of print-outs lay across the workstation, containing all the names mentioned by each person interviewed by Vikki, or by Flint, or known to be associates or relatives of Plant. Tyrone had added Barbara (inheriting £12,000), Mrs Plant and Amelia Winter (double bluff). He still needed a Horned Man and a father for Lucy’s unborn child.
Chief Inspector Douglas went into the list together with a pile of local dignitaries, politicians, a pop star, a second rate novelist, two judges (one retired) and the Master of the local Masonic lodge (information via his father). He had added R. Temple-Brooke, as the name appeared in four lists; the list of Lucy’s contacts; the list of Michelle’s contacts; the Who’s Who of the Darkewater Valley and the list supplied by Leopold Gratz. Other names kept swimming to his attention, names which meant nothing without proof to nail them as suspects.
Turning off the machine, he went into his study room to lock up and study the wall chart again. Flint had added a box labelled ‘Michelle = Willow’. He had also written ‘Hazel = Lucy?’ and both were connected by the book of poems. Tyrone knew a game was being played, with Jeffrey Flint on one side trying to outwit an unknown opponent who manoeuvred his pieces unseen. This was not like archaeology where the facts remained stationary, waiting to be found; it was more akin to postal chess.
He locked his own office. Outside, the corridors were dark, almost everyone had gone home, or back to what passed for home during term time. Light showed from under the door marked ‘Dr J. S. Flint’, its occupant presumably waiting for his night school to arrive. Monica would be coming too, Tyrone expected. She was too old for Flint; someone should tell him. Tyrone knocked.
‘Come in, Tyrone.’
Tyrone pushed the door open. ‘How did you know it was me?’
‘Your Hush Puppies squeak.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Plus, everyone who lacks your dedication went home at lunch-time. Have you read this?’
The lecturer held up Lucy’s copy of R. Temple-Brooke’s Eyes on a Clear Day.
‘Should I?’
Flint opened the book at a marked page. ‘Read. Be enlightened.’
Tyrone cleared his throat and read the passage aloud.
‘…All earth’s blackness I despise,
For De Nigris shields mine eyes,
And holds the power to thwart them still,
I shall endure, survive I will…’
He groaned, ‘What a heap of dross.’
‘And so it goes on.’
‘I’m surprised anyone published it.’ Tyrone dropped into the soggy chair, flicking idly through the remainder of the poems.
‘He uses a vanity publisher. They try to solicit my business all the time.’
‘So, in effect, this Temple-Brooke person has to pay people to read his poems.’
‘Not quite. He seems to like giving copies away to young ladies.’
‘Lucy and your Michelle?’
‘Hazel and Willow.’
‘Those names are pathetic, don’t you think?’
‘They may be designed to confuse people — they confused us for long enough.’
Tyrone flicked the pages of the book again, running from back to front. He still hadn’t mastered Flint’s knack of reading pages at a glance. ‘To save me reading all this, are there any more mentions of De Nigris?’
‘No, but you can see why I’m curious. De Nigris does not exist, so why is this cretin quoting it as if it were the Bible?’
*
Perhaps it did exist, Tyrone had argued before Flint had evicted him from his office. Perhaps it did, but the night school came first, with more pretty slides of mosaics to illustrate a talk on villas and rural settlement. Monica was there, taking notes as assiduously as the rest, and afterwards Flint took her for a drink in what looked like becoming their usual place.
Monica had been telling him of how she had become dissatisfied w
ith teaching and found a new meaning to life through healthy nutrition and meditation. He had related a couple of inconsequential college dramas which had kept the air alive after the excitement of freshers week. Monica wore a high-necked blouse she had embroidered herself, with a small blue gem hanging at her throat. She would toy with it from time to time as she listened to what he had to say.
‘Monica,’ he said, changing tone as he moved on to business, ‘did you make any progress with that list?’
‘No, I’m sorry, most of my customers are faces; I rarely know their names.’
‘I’ll try to get pictures if I can.’ He thought of Michelle and how touched she would be if he asked for a photograph, then winced at the hypocrisy.
‘Bring it, please, anything I can do.’ She was all well-worn smiles as usual.
‘The other thing is that book, De Nigris, the one I advertised. Have you ever heard of it before?’
‘No.’
‘It’s just that there’s a poem which mentions it; I have it here.’ He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out Eyes on a Clear Day. ‘It belonged to Lucy.’
She took the book without a word, then turned to the dedication. ‘It says Hazel here.’
Flint waved away the anomaly. ‘Lucy had it. I haven’t quite worked out who Hazel is yet.’
He instructed her how to find the poem, noticing how she fumbled with unfamiliarity.
‘You introduced the author at Glastonbury; I thought you’d know his works well.’
‘Oh yes, Rupert’s an old friend.’
‘I must meet him again, try my list on him. You could set it up.’
‘No,’ said Monica sharply, ‘I couldn’t, he wouldn’t thank me for it. He’s a very private person. He enjoys his public readings, but normally he keeps to himself.’ She hesitated. ‘I only ever see him at readings.’
Ah, thought Flint, Monica had been name-dropping and now regretted it. He should give her space to retreat. ‘Tell you what, I’ll drop him a line.’
‘Do that.’
Monica seemed less well at ease that night, and wanted to leave before last orders. She had a long drive, so Flint could hardly blame her. He sauntered back towards the Tube station, feeling the cold in the air, thinking he needed something smarter to wear than a surplus RAF greatcoat. Monica might be less help than he had first hoped and he had not enjoyed the evening so much as the previous week. Perhaps he had again met someone to whom he was mismatched.
A gang of youths screamed and ran from the yellow mouth of the Tube station. Flint watched them go, checked there was no danger, then turned his eye towards the telephones, thinking of that accursed book. He drew out his diary and searched for the scrawled telephone number beside the name ‘Gratz, L.’
Leopold Gratz proved reluctant to meet Jeffrey Flint again, certainly not at his home, certainly not at half a day’s notice following a midnight phone call. Flint was insistent and they compromised. Gratz was due to visit the British Library, and agreed to a casual rendezvous in the British Museum.
The following afternoon, Flint loitered by the Elgin marbles, feeling rather nostalgic for hectic days of love and adventure in Greece. His life seemed crowded with women now, but in those days there had been only one and his throat dried at the memory. Where was she now? Did she ever think of him?
He switched his concern to the present. Where the hell was Leopold Gratz? As he waited for the occultist he wondered if years must elapse before the knotted cords of Lucy’s disappearance could be untangled. Twenty minutes passed, then a familiar figure stalked into the gallery, a pile of books and papers pushed under his arm. He was looking the wrong way.
‘Professor Gratz!’
Gratz gave a start, then reached out for a hand to shake. ‘Leopold, dear man, call me Leopold.’
‘Good to see you here. I could easily have come to your place.’
‘No, no. It’s better if you don’t. I was coming here anyway. Otherwise, I’m keeping a low profile.’ Gratz glanced one way, then the other, then back again.
‘Low profile?’
‘Yes, I said low profile.’ The Scots Brogue was stronger than ever before. He nodded for melodramatic emphasis.
Flint found the temptation to glance around irresistible. ‘What’s going on, Leopold?’
‘I warned you about dabbling; I told you that some people can be determined.’ Gratz spoke in low tones, nodding his head and bringing his eyebrows down to shield his eyes.
‘Leopold, everything is cool. Since I found the body, no one has threatened me, no one has tried to incinerate me, I’ve had no more sick parcels...’
‘Perhaps you have not, but I have!’ Gratz broke in. ‘On Saturday I received a letter dipped in blood. Ox blood I daresay, but blood all the same. It is not a message I would ignore.’
‘What does it say?’
‘You may have it.’ He drew a rolled plastic bag from his pocket. ‘You may add it to your collection.’
Strong odours of dead animal pierced Flint’s nostrils as the bag was unrolled.
‘It’s a little reekie.’ Gratz passed over the bag.
Two Japanese tourists had stopped and paid close attention to the English ritual of passing the blood-stained letter. Flint glared at them, and when they hurried away he turned his attention back to the macabre object. The lower third of a stiff cartridge sheet had been dipped in blood, which had now turned a crispy brown. Above the gore had been typed a two-line couplet:
Blood flows down The Darkewater Valley,
Do not let your veins feed the river.
‘Very theatrical. Posted in south London?’
Gratz grimaced. ‘So you are a mind reader too.’
Plant had been a long time dead to be still issuing threats. It was odd that someone should suddenly feel threatened by Gratz, odder still that they even knew about him.
‘Shall we move?’ Gratz was becoming nervous, so they strolled towards the Assyrian room. ‘I think this is my fault; I have been making a few enquiries on your behalf.’
‘And somehow the message has got back?’
Gratz nodded. ‘So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stop asking. A dead man, a burnt boat and now this...’
He touched the top of the bag which Flint had pushed into his own jacket pocket.
‘Well, that’s your choice. Pity. Did you find out anything?’
‘Since we last spoke I’ve been to a couple of conventions. I asked about your book, De Nigris. Interesting.’
‘It exists?’
‘Something of that nature seems to have appeared on the scene. There is a rumour, a persistent rumour that a powerful and unknown grimoire has been found.’
All around the walls of the museum was evidence of the antiquity of fearful religious belief.
‘It’s nonsense though – tell me it’s nonsense.’
‘So it’s nonsense.’ Gratz stopped and spread his hands skywards. ‘Those who wish magic to exist are always spreading rumours of a Great Book, or a Great Leader. At the moment, we have both this book and a sort of Black Messiah.’
‘Like your Horned Man?’
‘Indeed. He will be discovered to be a charlatan, however, just like all the others.’
Flint watched a group of schoolgirls pass, thinking fleetingly of Lucy Gray, the reason for all this mind-warping incursion into the occult.
‘Leopold, what can you tell me about R. Temple-Brooke?’
Gratz cocked his head to one side. He was rather shorter than Flint and had to gaze upwards. ‘He’s a minor writer who hangs around the New Age fringe. I met him some time back in the summer and mentioned your problem. He lives in your area, so I thought he might know something of what’s going on, but apparently not.’
‘Is there any chance he’s involved? I have three mystery women involved in this coven, but I’m desperately seeking male suspects.’
‘Temple-Brooke seemed to know of that Piers Plant character, but dismissed him as a crank. He has what
you might term a philosophical perspective on the New Age and he’s always been very scathing about the paranormal.’
‘He seems to know all about De Nigris; to the extent of writing a poem about it.’
‘Has he indeed? I always found his literary criticism very astute, but his poetry is not his best work. That does not stop some of his younger adherents calling him The Poet…’
‘…memories of Aleister Crowley?’
Flint had read all about the founder of Golden Dawn, the inter-war cult of sex magic.
‘Temple-Brooke is no Crowley,’ Gratz said with confidence.
‘You know him that well?’
‘No, but the leading occult figures are well known to me, and he is not one of them. If anything, he’s on our side of the fence. He’s very conservative.’
‘What does he do? I mean, how does he make his living?’
‘He doesn’t. He inherited a little land out near the coast, and he married money to keep it going. His real name is James Rupert Templestone, and R. Temple-Brooke is his pen name. I suppose calling himself Rupert Brooke would have been a little too presumptuous. He has standing, of sort, in the locality. I understand he’s a failed politician.’
‘He sounds the right sort of figure to be your Horned Man. My assistant has a devious and colourful conspiracy theory.’
‘Temple-Brooke has a high public profile in other fields – he’s a publisher, I’ve even written in his magazine New Sceptic. He canna be your Horned Man, but you might find it worthwhile speaking to him on your own account.’
Flint shook his head. ‘I’ve stopped tackling people head-on. The last thing I want to do is stir things up again. Too many people got hurt last term.’
Gratz pulled out a pocket watch and found an excuse to go. He slapped Flint on the arm. ‘Well, I won’t be getting hurt either, you take care, m’boy.’
It would be another one of those terms; Flint could see it coming. Archaeology was already taking a back seat to playing detective, as Professor Grant would put it. After talking to Gratz he only had three hours to kill before meeting Michelle. A conference in Bradford was expecting to hear his third-century critique, and he had still not had time to work enough jokes into his paper. Flint slipped the blood-stained letter into his briefcase, then decided to go back to his flat. He would work on the paper, take a shower, then dress up in his Grant Selby costume once more.
