Death at the Plague Museum

by Lesley Kelly

  His second prerequisite was silence, or at least the option to have peace and quiet occasionally. Marcus was an excellent IT technician, and good friend, who had opened his home to Bernard in his hour of need. But good friend or not, Bernard had to admit that he was also quite annoying in some ways, and extremely annoying in others. His chief grievance was that Marcus was absolutely the world’s worst at taking a hint. Many evenings, as the clock nudged eleven, Bernard would yawn and make noises about going to bed. Marcus would nod enthusiastically urging him to ‘go for it’ then continue to watch TV and give a running commentary on what was happening on the science fiction channel to Bernard’s inert figure lying tense and frustrated on his damn blow-up bed.

  His final necessity in a home, although he would rather have died than admit it, was a woman to share his space with. He’d been married to Carrie for a very long time. While nobody could describe their last few years together as happy, the break-up of his marriage had left him with a deep, deep loneliness that no amount of nerdy companionship from Marcus and Bryce could overcome. Although he’d tried to keep this particular feeling to himself, his unhappiness must have been obvious as it had been noted by his companions, who were quick to suggest a solution.

  ‘We know what you need to do,’ Bryce had said.

  Bernard was still dealing with the novelty of hearing Bryce actually speak. In nine months of working with him, he hadn’t heard Bryce utter a single syllable. He was renowned for his taciturn manner, which Bernard now knew to be a manifestation of extreme shyness, a shyness he appeared to have overcome as he’d got to know Bernard better. ‘You do?’

  ‘Online dating.’ Marcus had grinned. ‘Bryce and I are big fans.’

  ‘Really?’

  He’d dug a little deeper into how two IT nerds, one of whom barely spoke, had managed to negotiate the choppy waters of Internet dating, and had found that their enthusiasm was of a theoretical nature. In spite of their obvious willingness to embrace the world of virtual romance, neither of them had got as far as going on an actual face-to-face date.

  He’d allowed them to talk him through the process of signing up, creating a profile, and alienating women through inappropriate use of ‘jokes’ in emails, but he remained unsure of the whole online dating option. He’d decided to seek more sensible counsel and had canvassed Mona on the subject. She’d reacted with a surprising degree of suspicion to his question about her position on the subject, and had asked him if he was ‘having a go’ at her, which was a strange response, even for her. He put it down to her usual reticence about talking about her private life. Given what he knew now it could, of course, have been down to her thinking he was prying into what Paterson had tactlessly called ‘the lesbian thing’.

  But, all in all, he was glad to be moving out. He felt suddenly guilty at his train of thought. Marcus, for all his faults, had offered him a home when he needed it. His hints to Mona and Maitland had elicited no such offers. Mona had directed him to the Gumtree Rooms to Let category. Maitland had told him there was no way he was moving in with him, as he wasn’t having Bernard hanging around the flat with a big hard-on for Kate. This had made him particularly angry due to the element of truth in it. Kate, the curly-haired goddess, was to Bernard’s mind way too good for Maitland.

  So, credit where it was due, he had a lot to be grateful for when it came to Marcus. When he stopped to think about it, he had a lot to be grateful to Bryce for too. He’d got to know him much better over the weeks he’d stayed at Marcus’s place. Bryce had been sympathetic to his plight, supportive of his attempts to get his life back on track. A tentative friendship had developed between them, which he hoped would outlast his move to his own place.

  There was the honk of a horn from outside, indicating that Marcus was here with the car. He picked up his bag and took a last look at the patch of carpet where he’d lain for the past few weeks.

  Onwards and upwards.

  Marcus’s flat was high-ceilinged and airy, reflecting the grandeur and lofty ambitions of Edinburgh house-builders from the era when the nineteenth century had slipped into the twentieth. Bernard’s new flat was from the era when the twentieth century was giving way to the twenty-first, and reflected the more modest ambitions of Edinburgh house-builders to maximise every penny of profit from a piece of land. His flat was tiny.

  He’d felt claustrophobic even when the letting agent had been showing him around, keeping up a chirpy monologue about the accommodation’s many space-saving features. He’d balked when she quoted a rent that was not far off the mortgage on his marital home, but he’d signed it on the spot. What choice did he have? He was still paying the mortgage on the flat that Carrie was now occupying solo. He supposed he could go back and negotiate with her, but as she wasn’t working it was unlikely that she’d be able to stump up.

  ‘So, where do you want these?’ Marcus held aloft the two large plastic bags he was carrying.

  Bernard surveyed the furniture that wasn’t his. ‘Drop them on the sofa.’

  Bryce appeared with the hard drive from his computer. ‘We really need to talk to you, Bernard, about these modern inventions called tablets – or even laptops?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I like my PC.’

  ‘Stone age mentality.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘I’ll get the rest of your prehistoric gear.’ He turned on his heel, and they could hear him singing the theme tune to The Flintstones as he jogged down the stairs.

  ‘I think that’s it now,’ said Bryce.

  ‘Great. I’ll stick the kettle on. Assuming I can find some mugs.’ He looked round the kitchen/living room area, trying to work out which box or bag contained his limited selection of crockery. As he did so he caught sight of Bryce, leaning against a worktop with an expression on his face that hinted at worry.

  ‘You’re looking very pensive. What’s up?’

  His frown deepened. ‘Bernard, can I ask you something? Something about Marcus?’

  He nodded, puzzled.

  ‘Have you noticed any change in him recently?’

  Bernard thought for a minute. ‘I don’t think so. What kind of change?’

  ‘I’m worried about him, Bernard. I’m worried about . . .’

  The man in question came bouncing back into the room, armed with a monitor which he dumped on the floor.

  ‘And we nearly forgot.’ He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a plastic bag. ‘A house-warming present.’

  Bernard delved into the bag. ‘A pencil holder?’

  ‘Bryce’s idea.’ Marcus gave one of his distinctive giggles, high-pitched and nasal. ‘We thought if you are the kind of luddite that still has a PC, you’re probably the kind of freak who still uses pen and paper.’

  They had him pegged. He held the ceramic pot aloft. ‘That’s really thoughtful. Thanks for everything, guys.’

  Marcus shot him a cheery grin, but behind his back he could see that Bryce still looked worried. He gave Bernard a sad wave, and with that they were gone. The door closed on Marcus’s chattering, and suddenly the flat was very, very quiet.

  Bliss.

  7

  The Delphin was small and cosy, with rough-hewn stone walls and stripped wooden floors. Situated in the basement of a Georgian building on one of the quieter New Town streets, its cellar setting meant that the building was full of nooks and crannies, with tables set at a discreet distance from the neighbouring diners. There really couldn’t be a better place in Edinburgh for a first date.

  Unfortunately, Mona hadn’t yet made it into the restaurant. She stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the road, trying desperately not to give in to a full-scale panic attack. She counted slowly to ten in an effort to get her breathing properly under control, and told herself she was being ridiculous. She’d been shot at, and had picked herself up and kept going without a second thought. She dealt day-to-day with the pressure and politics of the HET without her heart rate rising so much as a beat. The nearest she came to getting stressed was deali
ng with her mother. Yet here she was, embarking on her first date in years, and turning into a complete basket case. On top of everything else, she was late.

  There was a very real possibility that she just wasn’t cut out for online dating. Her love life until this point, such as it had been, had been conducted face-to-face and generally in a state of inebriation. It hadn’t been planned, there had been no slow build-up, no getting to know someone, picturing what they might be like, wondering if they would like you too or if you were staring rejection in the face. Now here she was, stone cold sober and about to meet up with a woman called Elaine, with whom her only contact had been a series of email messages.

  Good emails, though. Warm. Witty. Indicative of someone who did more than slump in front of the TV every night. Emails from someone fantastic, who might turn out to be the kind of person she could spend the rest of her life with. Although it was equally likely her date might take one look at her and reject her good and proper. But she’d never find out if she didn’t get her feet to start moving in the direction of The Delphin.

  The door behind her opened, revealing a New Town matron holding a bag of rubbish. She tutted as she walked past. ‘This isn’t public property, you know.’

  Mona muttered an apology and moved swiftly in the direction of the restaurant. Here goes nothing.

  The restaurant smelled of garlic and herbs. Her stomach growled; she’d been so busy worrying about the date she’d forgotten that she was actually hungry.

  ‘Do you have a reservation?’ The woman at the reception smiled at her.

  ‘Eh, yes, it’s in the name of Whyte?’

  She looked at her list, and picked up a menu. ‘Ah, yes, the other member of your party is already here.’

  She walked on, her high heels clicking on the stone floor. Mona followed her, her heart bouncing around like an army truck on a potholed road.

  There was a lone woman sitting at a table, her back to them. She had thick auburn hair, cut short. It stuck out at an angle that Mona found endearing. The woman swivelled round as she heard them approach. ‘Mona?’

  She nodded, her throat suddenly dry.

  The waitress stood in polite silence while she lowered herself rather clumsily in to the seat. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  Elaine held her glass up, which was now only half-full. ‘I recommend the rioja.’

  Mona smiled mutely at the waitress, hoping that she recovered her voice before she looked like a complete idiot.

  Her date took a large swig of her wine, then reached for one of the breadsticks that were in a little tub in the centre of the table. She slowly chewed her way through one, all the time staring at Mona in a manner that suggested she was slightly amused by the situation. Eventually she spoke. ‘So, Mona, are you a regular Internet dater?’

  ‘No, I’m really not.’ She was relieved to find that she could still actually speak. ‘In fact, I’m pretty nervous about the whole thing.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  Mona was surprised by this. She really wasn’t getting an anxious kind of vibe from her date. ‘You don’t look nervous.’

  Elaine leaned in, conspiratorially. ‘Promise you won’t judge me, but this isn’t my first glass of wine this evening.’ She laughed, then gently put her hand on top of Mona’s. ‘So, tell me everything about you.’

  Mona was very aware of the pressure of Elaine’s touch. She resisted the temptation to pull her hand away. ‘Everything? I’m not sure there’s much to tell.’ Her wine arrived, and with her free hand she lifted the glass and took a very large gulp indeed.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, and by the end of the evening I intend to get it all out of you.’

  There was something very reassuring about Elaine’s voice. She had an overwhelming desire to confide in her, restrained only by a suspicion that there wasn’t anything in her life that would be of interest to a stranger. She took another large swig of rioja. ‘There’s really nothing to tell.’

  Elaine gave a mock sigh of frustration. ‘OK, let’s start with the easy questions. Brothers and sisters?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And what did your parents do?’

  ‘Dad, now dead, was a cop, Mum taught nursery school . . .’

  And with that, she was off. Over the starter, they continued with her childhood. The main course covered her university years (Napier Uni, Business Studies, hadn’t much enjoyed the whole student experience). Two crème brûlées arrived for pudding.

  ‘And the HET, Mona?’ Elaine gently hit the top of her pudding with a spoon. ‘That must be fascinating?’

  ‘Not really. CID was more interesting.’ She peered at the debris on the table. Were they really onto their second bottle of red? ‘And I’m fed up of the lack of resources we have at our disposal.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What does it stop you doing?’

  ‘Well, like at the moment we’re looking for a missing civil servant, and it’s really important that we find her as soon as possible, but there’s only three of us actually looking for her . . .’

  ‘I dare say a missing civil servant isn’t a big crisis.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s important in terms of Virus stuff, and her colleague has just committed suicide, so we need to find her. Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with work.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound boring. I’m picturing you chasing bad guys and wrestling them to the ground.’ Her eyes flicked over Mona, as if she was imagining Mona doing just that. ‘You look like you’d be very good at that kind of thing.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Oh yes. I can imagine you spend a lot of time getting toned at the gym.’

  Again her eyes flicked over her, and Mona felt a surge of lust, followed immediately by a dampener of fear. If Elaine wanted to see her gym-toned body she wasn’t going to disappoint. But not tonight. She wasn’t quite ready yet. Even if she had been ready, she was now so seriously drunk that she wasn’t sure that she could deliver much in the way of bedroom gymnastics tonight. She wasn’t entirely confident she could walk, never mind anything more energetic.

  ‘You know what, Elaine? I’ve just realised I’ve rabbited on about me all night, but asked you next to nothing about you. Tell me about your life. I don’t even know what you do for a living.’ She grinned a little blearily. She felt bad for going on about herself, but there was something about Elaine that was so soothing, so familiar that she couldn’t help but talk to her. It was like she’d been listening to her voice all her life. Maybe this was the way love felt, being so comfortable with someone that it felt like you already knew them.

  ‘Mm.’ Elaine picked up their bottle of wine and poured the last dregs of it into Mona’s glass. ‘Amongst other things, I write.’

  ‘Would I have read any of your work?’

  ‘Possibly.’ She played with her empty glass. ‘I mainly work on the radio these days.’

  That voice. Somewhere in Mona’s booze-befuddled brain the cogs started turning. That ability to reassure, to get you to talk about yourself. Elaine’s voice sounded familiar because she’d heard it before. She’d heard her on the radio, but she didn’t think she was the kind of presenter who played records, no, she was more . . . Oh God. The realisation of where she’d heard the voice before hit her. ‘You’re that DJ that hates everyone! What’s your name again?’ She snapped her fingers until it came to her. ‘You’re Cassandra Doom!’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ She gave a little salute with the wine glass. ‘Obviously not my real name. Sounds rather better than Elaine McGillvary though, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Mona rested her head on her hands. ‘What did I tell you about the HET?’ She couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said. Damn the alcohol.

  ‘Relax, I’m off duty.’

  Mona looked up at her. Was this true? Were right-wing shock jocks ever off duty?

  ‘My boss would have a fit if he knew I was here. He hates you with a passion.’

  �
��I get that a lot.’

  She didn’t look particularly upset. Which was more than could be said for Paterson if he ever found out about Mona’s evening out. Cassandra Doom had devoted an entire programme to the HET and its infringement on citizens’ inalienable rights to go around infecting their neighbours. She followed this up with a regular segment on the absurdities of HET activities across the country, supplementing her radio activity with a weekly column in the Citizen. Outraged as Paterson was by the HET comments, Mona suspected that there was a lot of common ground between the two of them on benefits claimants, policing, and the interference of the government in parenting.

  ‘You didn’t invite me on a date specifically because I work for the HET, did you?’

  ‘Of course not! I invited you because you were by far the best-looking woman on the site.’

  Mona eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘If I’d invited you here just to get information about the HET, I wouldn’t have admitted to who I am. This is full disclosure, Mona.’ She reached across the table for her hand. ‘Because I’ve really enjoyed tonight, and I’d very much like to see you again.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she lied. She reached into her purse, and threw some money on the table. She was sobering up fast. ‘Work in the morning.’

  She scuttled out of the restaurant, hoping to God that there was no way that Paterson, or even worse, Stuttle, could find out about her dining companion.

  TUESDAY

  POCKET FULL

  OF POSIES

  1

  Bernard was back at his desk, after a very comfortable night’s sleep. He’d enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in an actual bed, with clean sheets and a proper duvet. He’d retired to his room at a bedtime of his own choosing, after a peaceful evening which had involved no discussion whatsoever of Star Trek, The Walking Dead, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

  If he was entirely honest with himself, the evening had dragged a little. Well, quite a lot actually. By eleven o’clock he’d found himself quite missing Marcus’s prattling. The key to living alone, he speculated, was to keep yourself busy. Probably the best thing to do with a one-person flat was to spend as little time as possible actually alone in it.