Wrath of the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  And what about the crack in the log itself? As if someone had taken an ax to it in the fire; however impossible that might be. The flames were burning normally now, but just before the accident had happened, Adeline could have sworn they had changed color from their normal yellows and reds to a fleeting deep purple and green.

  She could keep telling herself she’d imagined it, but Adeline couldn’t shift the belief she had seen it with her own eyes.

  She was also sure of something else. In those flames, she had glimpsed a small, shiny, beetle and, for one second at least, it had lived in that fire. It had moved.

  Chapter 4

  Over the next week, Adeline fell into a routine. It gave her some comfort to know that breakfast would always be at eight thirty. She would commence work at nine, stop at lunchtime, work through the afternoon and, after dinner, read in the quiet library. And it had been quiet. Since the strange noises at the weekend, there had been no scratches, and now the fireguard stood solidly between her and any spluttering logs. No more sparks singeing either her or the rugs. The damaged one had been replaced and Butters hadn’t said a word about the matter.

  Time and again, Adeline tried to find the right time, or the words, to ask Butters more about the mysterious Dr. Quintillus. The pages she transcribed day after day had plummeted into the realms of the all too familiar. The dry-as-Egyptian-sand narrative of the academic. Calculations, deductions, quotations from learned sources, all the sort of thing Professor Mayer had crammed page after page with and which had filled Adeline’s days the previous year. Some days she fought hard to concentrate, her mind wandering off into thoughts of its own while her fingers faithfully typed sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, page after page.

  She carefully lined up each new sheet, wound it into the little machine and clunked away at the heavy keys. One day she calculated that if she continued at her current rate for the anticipated three months, the resulting manuscript would be something like 2,500 pages long. What had started out a promising, unique discovery had slumped into another tedious archaeological expedition. Who on earth would be bothered to read such a tome?

  By Friday, Adeline needed her weekend break. She had also decided she would spend it getting some answers to her questions about the portrait and the mysterious Dr. Quintillus.

  At nine o’clock, Butters entered with her work for the day. The impassive face seemed incapable of movement. He placed the sheets next to her typewriter, without a word.

  “Thank you, Butters,” Adeline said. He inclined his head an inch and made to leave, but he wouldn’t get away so easily this time. “I wonder,” she said, “May I ask you something?”

  He straightened his shoulders, no doubt bracing himself for some tedious enquiry.

  “Madam?”

  “It’s… I’ve been typing Dr. Quintillus’s manuscript for over a week and I don’t feel I know any more about him than I did before I took on this assignment.”

  Butters’s expression remained stony. “I wasn’t aware that such knowledge was a requirement of your position.”

  Adeline chose to ignore the dripping sarcasm and pressed on. “Maybe not, but I am interested in the man who would create such a beautiful room, with such an amazing ceiling which, as you told me, he specially commissioned. Reading the newspapers this week, I know a little more about Herr Klimt and his reputation.”

  Butters’s lip curled.

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean that.” Adeline laughed. She had read some gossip about Klimt’s alleged fondness for his female subjects. “No, I meant his reputation as a great, modern, reforming artist. It showed foresight on Dr. Quintillus’s part to commission work from him. And such a work, too. It must have cost a fortune. The gold alone…”

  Adeline allowed her gaze to travel upward and she craned her neck to see Cleopatra with her handmaidens, gods and goddesses. For the first time, it occurred to Adeline that the model for this Cleopatra couldn’t possibly be the same as the one who had sat for the mesmerizing small golden portrait she had seen down in the basement room.

  She lowered her gaze and looked straight into the butler’s eyes. “Were you here when Herr Klimt painted that ceiling?”

  Butters nodded. “Yes, madam.”

  “Did he use live models?”

  Butters shook his head. “I believe all that had been done in his studio. He brought pages of preliminary sketches with him and worked from those.”

  “And did Dr. Quintillus supervise the work at all?”

  “The doctor was away in Egypt at the time. The disruption to his work would have been far too great had he remained here.”

  “I can understand that.” Adeline took a deep breath. “Do you know where Herr Klimt has his studio?”

  Butters’s eyes opened wide. Surely, he couldn’t have looked more shocked if Adeline had propositioned him!

  “Madam, I can assure you that if you intend to visit Herr Klimt on your own, that would be most unwise.”

  Adeline thought quickly. She decided to take a gamble. With any luck, Butters wasn’t interested or inquisitive enough to read the manuscript before he delivered it to Adeline each day.

  “It’s a little awkward,” she said, her mind fabricating as she spoke. “You see, Dr. Quintillus included a note on one of the pages this week. Evidently he lent Herr Klimt a small picture to work from and he requested that whoever transcribed his manuscript should ask him to return it so that it might be added to his work. He refers to it and, without it, that section of the manuscript won’t make sense.”

  Did Butters believe her? He hesitated. Then he appeared to decide.

  “If you tell me what it is, I could call on Herr Klimt myself and retrieve it.”

  Adeline hadn’t anticipated such an apparently generous gesture. Now what would she do?

  “Oh no, Butters. I couldn’t ask you to do that. You have quite enough to occupy you, with this great house and so few staff. No, I can promise you, I shall call on Herr Klimt in broad daylight, remain outside, and refuse to cross his threshold. That way, no possible harm could come either to my person or my reputation. I shall probably not even see him. He will no doubt be working and his servant will attend to me. Besides, I know precisely what Dr. Quintillus gave to him. He describes it in some detail, but a little at a time. I have built up the picture of what it is, but you would have to wade through pages and pages of—I’m sorry to say this—dry, academic text.” Adeline pasted on a smile. Butters wavered. It was clear he never read the manuscript and the thought of doing so…

  “Very well, madam. Herr Klimt’s studio is at his home on Feldmühlgasse. Number eleven. It’s about a mile from here. I can draw you a map, but it’s relatively easy to find, or you could take a tram. The Number 58 will take you close to it.”

  Relief swept through Adeline. The little lie had been worth it.

  That evening, Adeline settled down with a new book. She had just begun The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells—a modern author whose work she had never read, thinking its other-worldly content wouldn’t be to her taste. Dr. Quintillus clearly enjoyed the author’s books and this would be the first of at least twelve she could choose from. As the fantastic story began to unfold, Adeline could see why.

  She had become thoroughly gripped when the scratching began again. She jumped, listened. It came again. She crept over to the window. The noise began again. This time the scratching came from the other side of the wall. Behind the bookshelves.

  The small key was still in the door where she had left it.

  A minute later, the lit table lamp in her hand, Adeline took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The scratching stopped. She paused at the top of the staircase and rubbed her clammy palms, one after the other, on her skirt. Her mouth had dried. Nausea built up inside her. She must go on. Adeline crept downstairs. The lamplight cast flickering shadows on the wal
l. She caught her breath more than once at the fluttering patterns they created.

  At the foot of the stairs she paused again, listening for any noise. Nothing. Half her mind told her to go back, but the winning half pressed her onward, along the fusty corridor. No smell of lilies today.

  The door stood slightly ajar. She couldn’t remember if she’d left it like that.

  A full three quarters of her brain told her to retreat, but the stronger, determined quarter won. Adeline pushed open the door with one finger. This time it creaked so loudly Butters must surely hear. Perhaps the butler’s pantry lay above here. Or on the other side of the wall. Maybe that was where the scratching came from. Adeline shook herself and crept into the small room.

  She shone her lamp around the walls until it alighted on the portrait.

  A sudden movement grabbed her attention. On the periphery of her vision, a shadow materialized on the wall a few feet away from the portrait.

  A shapeless mass at first, it began to take form. A shape that couldn’t be there, because she was alone in this silent room.

  Her mouth gaped at the distinctive profile of a stovepipe hat and a head with long hair. It lost its shadowiness, became clear and well-defined. A sigh echoed around the walls. She felt it on the back of her neck. Adeline let out a cry, grabbed her long skirt with her free hand and raced out of the room. The door slammed hard behind her.

  Then, she was back in the library, with no recollection of getting there and nothing in her hand. She spun around. The lamp stood on the table again. Unlit. She sped over to it and reached out to touch the glass bowl. Cold. She looked around. Her book lay face down on the chair, just as she remembered leaving it before she went to investigate the noise. She looked at her watch. Ten twenty. But that didn’t help. She hadn’t checked the time before she went down.

  Adeline returned to the door by the window. The key was still there. She turned the handle. Locked.

  She went back to the chair and retrieved her book. She must be over-tired. Perhaps she had fallen asleep while reading. Maybe she had sleepwalked, although that would be a new experience. Either way, she needed to go to bed. Tomorrow, in the daylight, everything would seem much clearer.

  * * * *

  Adeline tossed and turned. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that shadow on the wall. The shadow that couldn’t be there. She must have imagined it, but it was all too real. Eventually, she fell asleep, only to wake with a start.

  She sat up and listened. Nothing. The servants slept on the other side of the house, so it was always quiet along her corridor and in her room. She lay back down again, only to leap out of bed. A knocking sound. Someone had banged on the ceiling of the room below. But all those rooms were shut up. Butters had told her so. Magda had told her the same thing. Dr. Quintillus would have had his bedroom down there, and there would have been guest rooms—although whether such a man ever had guests seemed unlikely.

  No light crept under the drapes. Adeline struck a match and lit her bedside candle. She peered at her watch, which lay on the night-table. Five minutes after three.

  She placed the candle back down. Its flickering flame caught on something on the wall. Something that glinted. Something that made Adeline catch her breath.

  It couldn’t be…

  She picked up the candle and held it closer to the wall above the mantelpiece.

  She stared.

  The golden portrait of Cleopatra stared back at her.

  “No!”

  Adeline scrambled into bed. The candle fizzed out. Terrified, she buried herself beneath covers and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  Any second, someone—or something—would surely come and get her.

  But the room stayed silent. No more noise from downstairs. Eventually, through sheer exhaustion, she fell asleep.

  * * * *

  For a few seconds after she awoke in the morning, she had forgotten what had happened. Then it all washed back over her and she forced herself to look over at the wall.

  It was bare.

  Adeline drew back the drapes and peered more closely at the space above the mantelpiece. Lacking a picture rail, the wall seemed equally bare of any nail or hook that the portrait could have been hung on. The pale sunlight illuminated her room. It seemed unreal somehow. She must have dreamed it. The picture, all that banging… The shadow on the wall in the basement.

  None of it could have happened. So, why was she so sure it had?

  * * * *

  Her cheeks tingled and she felt her nose reddening in the chill air. Thankfully, the tram arrived within a few minutes and she sat back on the wooden bench seat, next to the window. A couple of stops later, she climbed down the tram’s steps onto the sidewalk. The conductor rang the bell and the Number 58 clattered off. Butters’s clear directions meant she quickly found Feldmühlgasse.

  Number Eleven consisted of a single story villa at the end of a narrow, overgrown path. To the left, a rose bed had been planted, with bushes that would surely be a picture in summer. The rest of the garden was lawned, with trees and flower borders. A scattering of wooden chairs and benches hinted at lazy warm afternoons, when Klimt and his guests would sip wine and talk of art. With winter still firmly gripping the city, the trees stretched out stark, skeletal fingers. The seats invited no one but the hardiest soul.

  Adeline raised her hand to knock and a brief moment of trepidation almost made her turn and run back.

  A meow sounded at her feet. Something rubbed against her ankle. She looked down at a small black and white cat, nuzzling her. Adeline bent down to stroke the friendly animal and the door opened. The cat trotted in, tail held high.

  Adeline straightened and came face to face with a balding, well-built man, with a beard, sparkling blue eyes, and a friendly smile. He wore a bright blue smock and, despite the chill, only sandals on his bare feet.

  “I saw you from my studio window,” he said. “How may I help you, gnädige Frau?” His gaze traveled up and down her body.

  Adeline had the unnerving sensation of standing naked in front of him. She cleared her throat. “Herr Klimt?”

  He nodded.

  “My name is Mrs. Adeline Ogilvy. I am sorry to arrive unannounced, but I wondered if you could help me with some questions I have regarding a painting you did for the late Dr. Quintillus.”

  At the mention of the archaeologist’s name, Klimt’s smile froze on his face. He pulled the door open wider. “I think you had better come in.”

  Klimt led Adeline into a small, strikingly furnished reception room, one wall of which was adorned with brightly colored Japanese woodcuts. The furniture had been made of black stained wood, ultra-modern to Adeline’s eyes, although the style was familiar. It reminded her of a photograph she had seen in a magazine, showing designs by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Along one wall, a large display cabinet was filled to the brim with books of all shapes and sizes, demonstrating that their owner had eclectic taste in his reading material. Surfaces were covered in all manner of exotic art. Tribal masks from Africa and Asia, primitive, carved wooden statues. In one corner of the room, a complete suit of Samurai armor looked like it might march forward at any moment.

  In the center, on a modern blue patterned rug, stood a small square table with two chairs. The artist motioned her to sit there and Adeline lowered herself into the chair. It wasn’t the most comfortable experience, but she ignored the lack of upholstery. Opposite her, his eyes seeming to gaze into her soul, sat the only man she knew who could answer at least some of her questions.

  “May I offer you some refreshment?” he asked.

  “No. Thank you for the kind offer, but I must be keeping you from your work, so I had better tell you why I came so that I don’t disturb you any more than is necessary.”

  She heard herself gabbling and willed herself to stop. She noted the artist’s fingers, ingrained with
a palette of colors. A strong smell of oil paint and linseed wafted in from the next room. His studio, no doubt.

  Gustav Klimt smiled. “You are not disturbing me. Not at all. See? You are not disturbing my little friend, either.”

  The black and white cat, which had befriended Adeline on her arrival, rubbed itself against her chair leg. Adeline bent down to stroke it.

  “He likes you.” Klimt smiled.

  Adeline smiled back. “I like cats,” she said.

  “Now, tell me how I may help.”

  Adeline wished he wouldn’t gaze at her so intently. He must be in his fifties—old enough to be her father—but every time he looked at her, he seemed to undress her with his eyes. She remembered Butters’s warning. She must ask her questions, get her answers, and leave.

  “It’s about a painting you were commissioned to do for the late Dr. Quintillus,” she said.

  “Which one? I was commissioned to paint two works for the doctor.”

  “The library ceiling is exquisite, but it’s the smaller one. The golden portrait of…well, I believe it is of Cleopatra.”

  Again the smile creased the corners of Klimt’s eyes, lighting up his face. She had clearly said the right thing.

  “Thank you. I must have done a reasonable job then.”

  “It’s the most amazing picture I have ever seen in my life. There is something…” She searched for the right word in German, couldn’t find it and settled for a description. “The subject seems to be from another world.”

  “It felt like that as I was painting her. This was the most unusual commission I have ever had. Also the best paid. It seemed money was no object for the good doctor. He simply must have this portrait.” Klimt punctuated every word with a light tap on the table.

  “Can you tell me more? How and when he approached you?

  Gustav Klimt leaned back, took a breath and leaned forward again.

  “I completed the ceiling for him in around 1905. I worked to a fairly exact brief. More restrictive than I would usually prefer, but…he intrigued me, this archaeologist with an obsession for one woman. Cleopatra. He insisted on choosing the model. I objected, but I had some bills to pay and he threatened to cancel the project if I refused. When the time came to paint, I was relieved to find he would be away. By then, I feared he would be up there, next to me, guiding my every brush stroke.”