by Andy Emery
‘Ten times is pushing it. But yes, your youth has its advantages. But nothing’s for definite. There can be a thin line between taking salacious photographs and getting involved in serious criminality. If you step over that line, we’ll have to come after you, however useful you might be.’
‘Point taken, but let’s get down to brass tacks. I’m guessin’ you’re here because there’s a job on?’
‘That’s right. It’s a peculiar one. I need you to get yourself up to Holborn. You know the square at Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’
‘Yeah. Lot of lawyers’ offices around there, right?’
‘Yes, but this is nothing to do with them. On the north side there’s an unusual looking building that houses the Soane Museum. They had a break-in last night. Something was stolen and a boffin called Greatorex was knocked out.’
Cotter shrugged. ‘Doesn’t sound like a big deal to me, and some miles outside H Division’s stompin’ ground, Inspector.’
‘Very astute, Cotter. Most of my time is taken up here in Spitalfields, with these gangs that seem to have picked 1891 as the year they want to expand and make trouble.’
‘The Irish and the Jews, you mean?’
‘That’s right. The Flynn gang, or the Banshees as they like to call themselves now, and the Kaplans. But my interest in this incident is personal, and I happen to know that the E Division boys at Bow Street have been bemoaning their lack of photographic talent. Between you and me, they’re not going to put many resources into an investigation themselves, but they’ve cleared it for you to weave your magic. Get me these pictures, and as a side benefit, you might get to expand your horizons outside the East End.’
‘You’re right about it bein’ peculiar. Could be interesting, could be deadly dull. But at least it’s different.’
‘Good. So you’ll get up there now, then?’
‘Keep your hair on. Yes, I’ll delay developing this little lot. Give me ten minutes and I’ll head out.’ Cotter gathered his paraphernalia and rammed a scruffy flat cap onto his head. ‘The things I do for you.’
Cotter whistled as the Soane Museum came into view. Cross hadn’t been wrong about it being a funny-looking place. It occupied a central position on the north side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, overlooking the grassy square. Its frontage was faced in a bright white stone, and projected a couple of feet forward from its neighbours. The surrounding homes were elegant townhouses, but their brickwork seemed dull in comparison. The museum’s facade was adorned with statuary, a balustrade and other ornamentation, all signifying classical antiquity rather than the modernity of late nineteenth century London.
The front door was open, but just inside, a man called out to Cotter as he ascended the steps. ‘Mr Cotter? We’ve been expecting you. I’m Henry Beamish, one of the attendants.’
‘Hello, matey. You know why I’m here, then?’ He inclined his head toward the tripod on his back.
‘Yes. Inspector Price at Bow Street told us to leave everything as it was and await your arrival.’
Cotter chuckled. ‘Everything except the old codger that got knocked out, eh?’
‘Er, this is that very gentleman. This is Mr Greatorex.’ Beamish moved aside to reveal the victim of the previous night’s assault, sitting in a chair and cradling a large mug of tea.
Cotter loosened his collar with a forefinger. ‘Whoops. Beg pardon, Mr Greatorex. Didn’t see you there.’
Greatorex tutted and shifted in his seat. ‘Clearly. Please be about whatever it is you have to do, so that we can get this place back to some sort of order as soon as possible.’
Beamish moved ahead of Cotter, and took hold of his arm. ‘Mr Cotter, let me show you the scene of the attack, and you can get on with taking your pictures. How about that?’
They headed downstairs, leaving Greatorex to finish his tea.
In the basement, Beamish turned up the lights. ‘Normally, we keep the lighting subtle, tends to give the place more of an authentic “ancient” atmosphere, Mr Greatorex says. But you’ll need a bit more illumination, I dare say.’
‘I’ll say, cock. Here, I don’t mean to give offence like, but old Greatorex is a bit of a stuffy so and so, isn’t he?
Beamish smiled. ‘He means well. But yes, he does rub some people up the wrong way. Everything’s got to be just so with him. Exhibits arranged in a particular way, forms filled out in triplicate. Same with his own clothes, from those daft spats on his feet to the stuff he puts on his hair. Some reckon it’s not exactly manly, poncing yourself up like that. Takes all sorts, I suppose.’
Cotter shook his head. ‘Anyway, to business. Where did the heinous crime take place?’
‘I found Mr Greatorex lying down here, at the base of the sarcophagus, when I opened up at seven this morning. He was groaning and only half-conscious. He reckons he’d only just started to come round. Apparently, he got whacked around ten o’clock last night.’
‘What about security men?’
‘We have two on the payroll. But last night neither was on duty, due to sickness.’
‘A bit remiss, ain’t it? And a bit convenient for our thieves. Anyone likely to have known about your staff shortage?’
‘I don’t see how. All our staff are beyond reproach. It must have just been an unfortunate coincidence.’
Cotter raised his eyebrows. As far as he was concerned, laxity like that almost deserved to get punished. ‘Well, there don’t seem to be any marks where he fell. What about the theft? What was taken?’
Beamish pointed to a display case. The glass was shattered into tiny fragments that half-filled the interior. There were a variety of small exhibits, mostly coloured models of people and animals.
There was a clear gap in the middle of the cabinet where one of the figures was missing.
Cotter nodded. ‘So what was there, until last night?’
‘One of these small human figures. They’re called shabti. They were placed in burial chambers, often in great numbers, to work for the deceased in the afterlife.’
‘Strewth. Them little chaps couldn’t do much work, I shouldn’t think. They’re only about three inches tall!’
Beamish smiled. ‘Purely representational, Mr Greatorex says. The missing figure is made of a greenish translucent pottery, called faience. It’s quite striking, compared to the others.’
‘But why would anyone bother breaking in here, knocking the old fella down, just for that little thing?’
‘Well, I can only assume whoever it was gives credence to an old rumour about that particular shabti. Its supposed importance was why it was in the centre of the case. You see, some shabti have other uses. Specifically, they’re inscribed with a formula, or what you might call a magic spell.’
Cotter snorted. ‘Magic, eh? Sounds like a load of tosh to me.’
‘It gets better. In this case, the inscription might help reveal the secrets of an ancient book of magic called the Lykopolis Grimoire.’
‘Oh, gawd. Magic again. So where is this grimoire, as you call it?’
‘That’s the problem. Nobody knows. Mr Greatorex says that story’s been discredited, and we should forget about it. But it looks to me like someone still believes the old tale.’
‘Some people’ll believe anything, Mr Beamish.’
‘You may scoff, Mr Cotter, but I’m afraid there are some deluded sorts these days who think the Egyptians were right in what they believed. Plenty of relics have come back to museums here and elsewhere in Europe in the last century or two, having been dug up out in the deserts.’
‘And I s’pose there’s always a few nutters who take things too far?’
Beamish nodded. ‘Becomes a mania for some of them. Some of the visitors here, they study all the mythology, the gods and goddesses, like they’re real. It’s not natural, if you ask me.’
‘Is it valuable, this grimoire?’
‘It could be, to the right buyer. But the story goes that the contents were so well protected, by the hieroglyphics and the shabti
required to understand it, because they told the reader how to summon certain gods or goddesses and bring them into the present.’
‘Bloody hell! What tripe! And people believe this stuff? That’s why it’s worth a lot?’
‘In part. But you have to remember there’s only a few people who’d be interested.’
‘Greatorex didn’t mention the business of the grimoire? When he came round, like?’
Beamish shook his head. ‘No. As I told you, he’d already stated, quite categorically, that the rumours of the grimoire had been disproven. It was only about a week ago that he made a point of emphasising it.’
Cotter smiled. ‘Another coincidence, that.’ Beamish shrugged. ‘Oh well, matey. I dare say it’s not my business, but I think someone else might try to make it theirs. I’d prepare yourself for more visitors if I were you.’ He winked. ‘Right, I’d better get on with the work I came here to do. You can leave me alone for a bit while I take some pictures. I’ll come up and find you later.’ Cotter erected his tripod and set about attaching the camera.
‘Alright, Mr Cotter. Oh, there’s one other thing. When I found Mr Greatorex, of course I roused him and helped him sit up. He was groaning and moaning but it seemed there wasn’t anything broken. I got him a medicinal cup of tea. He doesn’t drink alcohol. While he was sipping it, I noticed something glinting bright green, on the floor behind him. I reached down and picked it up. It was one of those beetles. Scarabs they call them. Made out of some sort of stone. Another little artefact, you see. So I said I’d better put it back where it was when the police come.
‘But at that, old Greatorex got quite animated. No, he says, that’s not an exhibit at all. It’s his own keepsake, and it must have fallen out of his jacket in the ruckus. He fairly wrenched it back off me and stuffed it back in an inside pocket. Just seemed strange, that’s all.’
7
Gedge paid the driver and lugged his canvas bag from the back of the hansom cab. He smiled as he breathed in the Spitalfields air. Although the break in rural Sussex had rejuvenated him, he’d been looking forward to getting back to London, particularly this area that had become so familiar in the last few months. He had given up his room at the Admiral Jervis Inn before going down to the south coast, and would now be lodging at the house on White Lion Street that was previously owned by Claude Rondeau, and now by his daughter.
A few seconds after his knock, the door to number fourteen was whipped open, and Polly rushed out to embrace him on the step, squeezing him with a strength that almost knocked the wind out of him, burying her face in his chest.
‘Steady on! I’ve only been away a couple of weeks.’
She raised her clear green eyes to meet his, and he saw something troubling in them. The usual sparkle was missing.
Her auburn locks fell away from her face and a bashful smile appeared. ‘Lucas, I’m sorry. I’m just being a silly girl.’
‘No, it’s fine. You’re alright, though? Has anything untoward happened since I’ve been away?’
‘No, no. Just feeling a bit fragile this morning, that’s all.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. How about making the returning wanderer a hearty mug of tea?’
‘Of course. Come on then.’ She seemed to collect herself and hurried to the kitchen.
He watched her disappear down the hall as he closed the door behind him. Something was amiss. He’d come to know Polly well enough to realise that she didn’t just feel ‘fragile’ for no reason, and usually she’d never dream of describing herself as a ‘silly girl’. On the contrary; she was the most independent young woman he’d ever met. She had little interest in the social conventions of the day, and keenly followed the women’s movement. She had taken on the onerous task of picking up the pieces of her father’s information-gathering empire with relish. After Claude’s death, she had handled the bereavement with grace. He felt sure this was something new. He had to find out what it was, but he might have to wait a while to tease it out.
She returned after a few minutes with the tea things. ‘How did it go? Your letter said this Dr Raistrick was helping.’
‘Yes indeed. As you thought, he’s not exactly a mainstream doctor. He was actually struck off ten years ago. Drinking.’
‘Oh no!’
Gedge held up a hand. ‘Don’t condemn him. He’s managed to conquer that evil. Although as he said, you’re never really over it, and he must remain vigilant to ward off the cravings. He seems happy living in an isolated cottage, miles away from anybody, and away from temptation, I suppose.’
‘So how does he come to know so much about the problems you have? The nightmares and the hand tremors?’
‘Train crashes. That big one back in ’84 near Horsham? It was in the newspapers. He was the first on the scene with any medical knowledge. He helped save the life of a young man there, who then contacted him months later to tell him about the problems he’d been experiencing since. Problems that weren’t physical, but to do with the mind.’
‘Including nightmares about the crash, by any chance?’
‘Amongst other things, yes. It turns out Raistrick specialised in mental health before he became a family doctor, and he had some radical views on how to treat mental illnesses. To cut a long story short, it sounds as though he used this young man as something of a guinea pig for his untested ideas. But they worked very well. From an existence disrupted by the mental traumas he was suffering, the subject was able to lead a normal life. Raistrick then treated several more victims of another train crash the following year. Secretly, of course. If the medical authorities had found out about him…’
Polly poured the tea. ‘That’s the point, then. Different kinds of traumatic events can cause similar effects in the brain? So the horrors of what you experienced are similar in a way to the ordeal of a train crash. What’s the treatment?’
Gedge hesitated. ‘Basically, it’s the opposite of what you’d expect. It involves reliving the experience, confronting it and accepting it. Of course, conventional medicine doesn’t recognise that this sort of thing represents a medical condition at all. If you have nightmares, if your hands shake and you’re terrified of any loud noise, you’re supposed to just “pull yourself together” and get on with things. The British stiff upper lip, and all that. But as Raistrick says, that doesn’t solve anything. The monster will still be there, just waiting to rear up, maybe when you least expect it.’
‘So, you had to deliberately go back through the torture you suffered? That must have been hideous.’
‘Yes, to an extent. But I felt Raistrick’s reassurance the whole time. That really helped. And although it was frightening, I started to remember more about it. The man who seemed to be behind it, the one who was clearly a European, not an Afghan, has become clearer in my mind. I feel I know who he was. If only I could remember his name.’
‘Well, you should forget about it for a while. Take it easy. I saw your daughter last week. Hannah’s very well. Looking forward to getting started on her medical career in a few months. It’s funny. She keeps repeating the name of the hospital. “The London School of Medicine for Women”. She says it sounds so impressive.’
Gedge smiled and sipped his tea. ‘Well, it does. I’ll go to see her at the hospital when I can. Now she and her mother have a house outside London it’s harder for us to see each other. But on the subject of Hannah, you know we are so grateful to you for paying her fees at the hospital.’
‘So you keep saying. And you know it was the least I could do. Claude would have wanted some of the inheritance to be used that way.’
‘I gather the other reason she’s keen to go to that particular institution is that some of the principals there are leading lights in the women’s movement?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was founded by Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, the first woman to qualify as a doctor, and her daughter’s a student there. Medicine and emancipation have become Hannah’s twin obsessions, haven’t they? Well, all power to her. It’
ll be a tremendous experience. And you must be proud of how she’s got over what happened to her last year?’
Gedge nodded. ‘Utterly. I don’t want to tempt fate, but it almost seems as though it made her a stronger person.’
They were silent for a while, sipping their tea.
‘I’d forgotten, Polly. What about Miss Fowler? She’s started helping you out with Claude’s documents?’
‘Yes, indeed she has. It was remiss of me not to mention her sooner. She did seem a queer sort when I went to see her at her flat. As you said, she comes across like a shrewd but nervous mouse. But she has a mind like a steel trap. And as you guessed, the hush-hush government work she’d been involved in did include cracking secret codes.’
Miss Fowler had been a witness to the abduction of Gedge’s daughter and she’d impressed him with her acumen. He had suggested to Polly that, as the spinster seemed to be missing the world of work, she might be able to put her talents to use in deciphering notes that Polly’s father had written in code.
Polly continued. ‘She’s made short work of some of the notes already. She says the cyphers she’s come across so far are quite easy to break. So far, nothing very interesting has been revealed. And nothing related to father’s death. I told her about that. A series of killings that father seemed to be linking to the wearing of a scarab brooch. Still, I’m sure if there’s anything to be found, Miss Fowler will do so.’
Gedge smiled. He was glad the old lady had something more interesting to do than watch the comings and goings outside her window.
‘She’s not here now, I take it?’
‘No. I gave her the afternoon off. Her dog needs to have his paw looked at or something.’
‘Well, mention of scarabs brings me back to the reason I’m back early. There might finally be a lead to your father’s murder. Has Jack Cross spoken to you?’
‘Yes. He was here earlier. And there’s been another development. Just last night there was an incident up in Holborn that he thought might be related to Father’s dying words. A robbery from a museum.’
