by Rachel Green
“What’s a homunculus?”
“A little man, animated by magic.”
“Haven’t we always had a problem with Harold’s little man?”
Jasfoup laughed. “Good point,” he said. “Here, take him his tea when you tell him. I have work to do.” He left with a blown kiss, walking directly through Mrs. Prendergast on the way out.
A glance around the shop reassured Julie that there were no physical customers and she rose. Between the shop front and the kitchen area at the back was the office and the door connecting the shop to the Basement Gallery. She knocked on the door to the office.
There was a hurried shuffling before Harold called out, “Come in.”
Julie opened the door a fraction and put her head round. Harold sat in front of a spreadsheet of the shop inventory. A half-empty packet of biscuits lay next to his empty tea cup. “What can I do for you, Julie?” he asked.
Julie stepped into the office and replaced the empty cup with the full one. “The Treatise on Animated Figures that went missing a few weeks ago,” she said, taking command of his mouse to scroll through the spreadsheet. She pointed to the relevant column. “I think it was stolen by Magelight.”
“You think?” Harold peered at the screen. “That could be dangerous. What are they doing with it, do you think?”
“Making animated figures?” Julie coughed. “I’m guessing that doesn’t mean cartoons.”
“Homunculi,” said Harold. “Little men that do their master’s bidding. Terribly complex to make and quite dangerous, too.”
“I can imagine.”
“Yes,” said Harold. “You have to get their life force from somewhere. They usually mean a sacrifice.”
“What sort of sacrifice?” asked Julie. “A virgin, that sort of thing?”
“Hardly. Trying to get a virgin in this day and age isn’t worth the trouble. It’s the holy arts that require virgin sacrifices.”
“What?” Julie was horrified. “You mean them upstairs…”
“That’s right. It’s them that need virgins. Look at the Mother of Christ. She was barely twelve and a half when she got up the duff with Jesus. Of course, she was classed as a woman by Hebrew culture but still. She had to be a virgin, see? You couldn’t have any Tom, Dick or Harold, saying ‘See her? That Mother of God? I’ve ‘ad her, you know. Round the back of the temple on Friday night after mass.’”
“I suppose so.” Julie sounded doubtful. “I can see your point about there not being any men about who can say they’ve shagged the mother of God, but I’m sure witches were always looking for virgins when I was a girl.”
“Witches maybe.” Harold made a notation about Magelight and scrolled back up to the most recent entry on the spreadsheet. “I was talking about demonology and Satanism.”
“I thought they were the same thing,” said Julie. “My mother warned me about them.”
“Your mother was half dinosaur,” said Harold. “She would have warned you about Mormons.”
Julie laughed. “She didn’t need to. She locked me away in a psychiatric ward from the age of sixteen.”
“Serves you right for seeing the dead.” Harold grinned to take the sting out of the words. “Seriously, Satanists are just inverted Christians. They believe in all the same things. People think Hell has an army of Satanists ready and willing to do our bidding. They don’t. They think they’re as much of a joke as anybody.” His conversation switched track. “Any sort of life force will do. A dog or cat, the stronger the better.”
“What?”
“You asked what sort of life force would power a homunculus,” said Harold. “That’s how we got on to the whole ‘save your virginity for God’ thing.”
“Right.” Julie nodded. “What should I do about this book then?”
“Leave it with me,” said Harold. “I’ll ask for it back.”
“You can’t do that,” said Julie, gripping his arm. “You’ll give the game away.”
“What game?”
Julie bit her lip. Should she tell Harold about the danger to Pennie, a girl he didn’t know from Adam or Eve, or Winston’s suspicions that Steven Lowry was hiding at her flat? She patted his arm.
“Leave it to me,” she said. “You know how aggressive some men get when you accuse them of theft. This needs a woman’s gentle touch.”
Harold nodded. “If you say so,” he replied, turning back to his computer and taking a biscuit out of the pack. “As long as we get the book back or its equivalent value.”
“How much is that?”
Harold looked it up. “Fifteen thousand,” he said.
“That’s almost my salary,” said Julie. “For one book?”
“Two, really,” said Harold. “It’s a bargain if you look at it that way.”
“I suppose.” Julie closed the door behind her and walked to the end of the passage to check the shop. There were still no real customers in, so she took the opportunity to use the door opposite the office to pop downstairs to the Basement Gallery.
“Fliss,” she said, creeping across the main gallery in case her sister had customers. “Are you free?”
“What?” Felicia came out of the office and stood before one of Winston’s new sculptures. “I’m going through the accounts. You wouldn’t believe how much we spend on light bulbs in this place.”
“Never mind that. I need a favor for tonight.”
“Tonight?” Felicia drew closer. “What kind of favor?”
“I need you to break into Magelight and steal something for me.”
“I’m not the breaking in kind, Jules. You know that.”
“I know, but I also know you know people.”
“Gillian, you mean.”
“Yes.” Julie shrugged. “You’ve far more clout with her than I do. There’s Valerie as well.”
“I suppose so. What do you want us to steal?”
“A book. It’s the copy of Robert’s Treatise on Animated Figures that was stolen from here a few weeks ago. We think Magelight are up to no good with it.”
Felicia pressed her knuckle against her front teeth. “I’ll get Valerie in on it. She used to work at Magelight and should be able to give us invaluable intel.” She looked up and grinned at her sister. “She might even do the run for free.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chase disconnected and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He turned to Pennie. “The police are sending a car round. They should be here in twenty minutes or so.”
“Fat lot of good that will do,” Pennie replied. She took a deep breath and covered her face with her hands, holding the breath as long as she could while pressing against her eyelids.
Chase watched her, letting out a sympathetic breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when she let out hers.
“Right,” she said. “Their first words are going to be ‘was anything stolen?’ so I want to be able to answer that. Come on.”
Chase followed her through the door and up the stairs. “Is this a flat, then?” he said. “It doesn’t look like flats from the outside.”
“It is flats,” she said, leading him through the door at the top, “although I actually own both. I bought them at the end of my marriage as an investment. The rent from the one downstairs pays the whole mortgage.”
“Clever.” Chase nodded approvingly. “I’m afraid the bank owns my house twice over. I sank all my money into the sanctuary.” He watched her carefully for a reaction. As far as he was aware, she didn’t know he knew about her buy-out.
“Why?” she asked. The question surprised him.
“Because I love animals?” His answer sounded hesitant and he disguised his confusion by stooping to right an overturned bookshelf.
“It’s not just that though, is it?” Pennie began pick
ing up small items from the vicinity of the smashed glass of the coffee table. “I mean, you might want to build a sanctuary but you can’t make a living off it, not without a lot more donations toward its running than you get. I know you have a board of trustees you submit accounts to, but do you really think you’re fooling anybody with the fictitious staff?”
“I’m not sure…”
“You know exactly what I mean,” said Pennie. “Manfred Monday and Penny Tuesday. Who do you think you’re kidding? It’s a good job I work for free and don’t wait for the two-hundred-and-forty-pounds a week you claim you’re paying me. If I wasn’t independent I’d have to raid the pig food or starve to death.”
“He does eat rather well, doesn’t he?” Chase laughed. “I made a deal with three of the supermarkets and delis around here and they send round all the food that’s past its sell-by date.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve been known to pinch a quiche or two out of his trough myself.”
“You’re evading the question.” Pennie fetched a cardboard box, a dustpan and a brush from the kitchen and began sweeping up the remains of the coffee table. “Where do you get your income from?”
“From the charity fund,” said Chase, “and a little from a scientific bequest. Those Bicows are going to take modern dairy farming by storm.”
“Bicows? That sounds like a website. You mean those funny-looking cows in the pasture?”
“That’s right.” Chase began to pick up books, stacking them on the shelves in any order to get them off the floor. “Once they’ve passed the EU safety panels and I can breed them true, they’ll make me a fortune.” He looked at her from beneath a loose fringe of corn coloured hair. “Us, I mean. They’ll make us a fortune.”
“That’s awfully presumptive of you.” Pennie looked up and laughed. “Put that down. It looks awful on you.”
Chase grinned and took off the blonde wig. “Why do you need this?” he asked. “You look fabulous as you are.”
“It’s insurance,” she said. “I bought it a couple of years ago when I tried to dye my hair and ended up turning it orange. Going to work with blonde hair was preferable to going bald. Then when Steven and I split up it became handy to keep around. He never expected to see a blonde watching his every move.”
“Or in his bed.” Chase waggled his eyebrows.
That earned him a glare. “Hardly. This was after we’d split up.”
“Fair enough.” Chase stacked more of the paperbacks. “I had an idea this morning, actually. It needs a bit of investment but I think it could help in the fight against global warming.”
“Burn all the Catholics?” Pennie laughed. “Or is that the solution to over population?”
“Hmm. Best I don’t comment,” said Chase. He finished piling the books and began to sort through the mess on the floor. “Let me ask you this. If someone said you should turn off your light because it produces a point zero zero three percent of a degree in the shift in climate, would it make much sense to you?”
“Not really, no.” Pennie finished clearing up the broken glass and set the box on the fake marble hearth.
“What if I said turning your lights out would save the life of a herring every day or a dolphin every year?”
“I’d say yum yum, pickle me a herring and I’ll leave my light on.” Pennie laughed at Chase’s sudden frown. “Oh cheer up. I’m pulling your leg. I think that’s a great way of getting the message across. I’m just not very sympathetic about fish. If you made it butterflies, maybe, or small furry animals…”
“I see your point.” Chase dusted away the dirt from an overturned rubber plant and uncovered a laminated name tag. “What’s this?” he said. “Was this your husband’s?”
Pennie looked across at the tag. “Yes,” she said, taking it out of his hand. “What’s it doing here? This is his access card to get into Magelight.”
“It wasn’t here to begin with?”
“Of course not.” Pennie flipped the card over to look at the back. “He wouldn’t be able to get into work.” She frowned and stood, tucking the pass card behind the clock which was, miraculously, still on the mantelpiece.
“Doesn’t that rather imply that he lost it recently? Like an hour ago recently?”
“Steven? Do this?” Pennie gave a bark of laughter. “Why would he? I’ve got nothing of his other than…” Her face fell. “Other than some papers he sent me. But why would he ransack my flat looking for those? He could give me a ring and ask for them.”
“It does seem odd.” Chase brushed the glass from a picture frame off an easy chair and sat down. Pennie stifled a giggle at the way he pulled at the legs of his trousers to prevent them rucking at the knees. They were already ruined by mud and grass stains. He frowned at her smile. “If it wasn’t him, why would his name tag be here?”
“How should I know?” Pennie picked up the box of glass and carried it through to the kitchen. “Let me see if I can find a couple of intact mugs for a cup of tea.”
“Let me help.” Chase leaped up and followed her into the kitchen. She dropped the box next to the back door. “Is that where they got in, do you think?”
She pulled at the handle and the lock fell off in her hand. “It seems likely,” she said. “It wasn’t like that this morning.” She looked across at him, shrugged and placed the lock on the corner of the work surface, reaching for the kettle. “See if there are any mugs in that cupboard, would you?”
“Sure.” The kitchen had fared better than the living room and had hardly any damage at all. Chase opened the indicated cupboard and found it crammed with mugs, most of them with poppies printed on. He chose two that matched and handed them to Pennie.
“My favorite flower,” she said. “I used to have six of these mugs, but Steven threw one at me the first time I refused to pander to his every whim. It seems stupid now that I got upset about it being broken.”
“It was probably the marriage being broken you were upset about, more than the coffee cup,” Chase said. “Sometimes it’s the little things that break the dam.” He moved across the kitchen to put his arms around her shoulders. “When my mum died, everyone thought I was terribly brave not to be upset about it. Stoic, they said I was. I didn’t even cry at the funeral. Three months after we buried her I saw a cat run over on the street and had to pull over to the side of the road I was crying so much. That’s when I decided to open an animal sanctuary.”
“Oh, Chase.” Pennie crumpled in his arms, burying her face against his chest and sobbing. “Who did this to my beautiful flat? What have I ever done to them? I feel like I’ve been violated. They may as well have taken my jewellery and spat on my grave.”
She sobered quickly and lifted her head. Chase wished she hadn’t. Normally a crying woman had a unique and beautiful appeal, born of trust and vulnerability. Pennie looked flushed and blotchy. “My jewellery,” she said. “I bet the bastards have nicked it.”
She dashed out of the kitchen as the kettle clicked, leaving Chase torn between following her to give her the emotional support she needed, or staying to make the tea.
An investment in the future won over personal gratification and he followed her through the crunchy carpet of the living room into what was obviously her bedroom. It was decorated in what was, in the eighties, referred to as ‘barley white’: cheap white emulsion with a hint of diarrhea. Here again was the poppy motif. Drifts of them were painted along the exposed bases of the walls.
Pennie was kneeling with her cheek to the carpet, reaching under the bed. She pulled out a slim suitcase and opened it.
“It’s all right,” she said, pulling a wooden box from the interior. “The thieves didn’t take it.” She held up a silver butterfly on a chain. Chase was surprised, expecting pearls at the very least; certainly not this piece of market stall tat.
“Steven gave it to me on our second date,
” she said. “It used to have diamanté along the edges but most of it fell off.”
“It’s…lovely.” Chase forced out a smile.
Pennie raised her eyebrows. “It’s not,” she said. “It’s a hideous trinket purchased by a scientist who thought it the perfect gift for a feminist. The point is, it showed that he had actually put some thought into it. It wasn’t something he could pick up at the petrol station on the way over.” She flipped open the body of the butterfly to reveal a small key. “And it’s a good place to hide a key,” she said, taking it out and applying it to the lock on the suitcase. A small compartment opened on the underside of the lid. “They didn’t get Steven’s pages, either.”
“What’s so important about them?” Chase asked.
“Something to do with his research.” Pennie pulled out an envelope and opened it to reveal a dozen pieces of parchment covered in tiny, crabbed handwriting. “It’s all Greek to me,” she said, handing them to him to see.
“Arabic, I think.” Chase took a step toward the window to see them better. “I can’t read it, though. Latin and Greek I studied at Oxford but Arabic is all squiggles still. He leafed backwards through the sheaf, pausing at a full page drawing of a humanoid figure with a horse’s head. A sigil was drawn over the heart of the creature; a mass of complex geometry. He shook his head and handed the papers back. “Beats me,” he said. “If your ex could understand that he’s a better linguist than I.”
“He was a cunning linguist,” Pennie replied, tucking the papers back into the suitcase.
“Was he really?” Chase grinned, debating the merits of the uncluttered bed against the need to get back to the sanctuary. “I can be something similar.”
“You can?” Pennie smiled and shuffled toward him, still on her knees. “I have some skills in storytelling.”
“Story-telling?” Chase raised his eyebrow.
“It’s an oral tradition.” Pennie winked and reached for his trousers.
