The Stone of Madness

by Nick Baker

  Lily nodded but remained silent, deep in thought.

  ‘Now, perhaps it is time for you to fill me in on some details that I would like explaining.’

  Lily frowned. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘You are not the only one that your father is reluctant to discuss matters with at the moment. I realise he is preoccupied, but I would like to know exactly how he managed to save me from the effects of the Devil’s Herb.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can help, Cornelius. All I can tell you is that he asked me to deliver some reagents he keeps in the basement store.’

  ‘What were they?’

  Lily thought for a moment. ‘Extract of Indian snakeroot and powdered Calabar bean. I’ve never encountered either of them during my studies before.’

  Spydre regarded Lily pensively. ‘Ah! How very interesting.’

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense!’ she said reproachfully.

  ‘Very well, but before I explain, just answer me this. What did your father do with the reagents when you arrived at the shop?’

  ‘He was waiting at the door when I got there and took me straight through to the office. It was awful, Cornelius. You were lying on the floor. At first, I thought you were dead. You looked terrible, and you were barely breathing.’

  ‘What did your father say?’

  ‘Nothing. He was in such a hurry and he was in no mood to answer my questions. He took a teaspoonful of each of the reagents and placed them in a bowl. He mixed them into a fine paste with some hot water from the kettle and then diluted the paste with some cold water from the tap before transferring it to a drinking cup.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We propped you up against the wall, although you were barely conscious, and he forced the foul-looking brew into your mouth. You could hardly swallow, and I thought you might choke, but he wouldn’t stop until you’d drained the lot. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was convinced that your life depended on whatever was in that awful concoction. After that, we just waited. You were still unconscious, yet your body was afflicted with muscular spasms that kept coming and going. Fortunately, by the time the ambulance arrived, the convulsions were subsiding.’

  ‘Thank you, Lily. At last, I am beginning to understand,’ said Spydre, shuffling into a more comfortable position. ‘It is ironic that Nightshade chose to use that particular poison. Perhaps it is her warped sense of humour that compels her to select a compound that shares its name with her own.’

  ‘But such a horrible poison, Cornelius. Why?’

  ‘Well, as I have already said, Lily, I believe she used it for two reasons. Firstly, to prevent your father from travelling to Amsterdam, and secondly, because she wanted him to know just exactly who the perpetrator of this evil misdemeanour was. It is her calling card, you see! Belladonna … how fitting. Do you know what it means?’

  Lily shook her head.

  ‘Beautiful lady! Can you believe the audacity of the woman? Ladies of court once used it to dilate their pupils as a way to enhance their beauty, but this particular beautiful woman seems to use it for far more deadly purposes.’

  ‘What exactly does it do?’

  ‘Now that I can tell you. I have had the chance to do some research since I came here,’ he replied, procuring an old, tatty pharmacopoeia from beneath the bedclothes. ‘I had Albright fetch it for me from the library. I have to hide it from Mrs Brimstork, you understand, or she would unquestionably confiscate it.

  ‘Atropine acts on the nervous system by blocking a naturally occurring chemical, acetylcholine, thus producing profound effects throughout the body.’

  ‘Acetylcholine?’ Lily asked, nodding tentatively. ‘Ana’s taught me about it as part of my neurophysiology lessons.’

  ‘Yes. It is a neurotransmitter that is released in minute quantities at nerve endings and is particularly important in the parasympathetic autonomic nervous system.’

  ‘Yes. The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for vegetative bodily functions such as controlling heart rate and producing secretions,’ said Lily eagerly.

  ‘And atropine acts by blocking the effects of these nerves. You already know what happened to me: racing pulse, dilated pupils, dry skin, and so on.

  ‘Acetylcholine is also an important neurotransmitter in the brain, thus accounting for the hallucinations that tormented me.’

  ‘So how did the reagents counter the drug’s effects?’

  ‘Your father’s qualities never cease to amaze me, Lily. His quick thinking undoubtedly saved my life. I know he experiments with chemicals, but even I bow to his knowledge in this area. I would never have considered the Calabar bean as an antidote to atropine, for it is a potent poison itself.’

  Lily looked aghast. ‘And he gave it to you!’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Spydre, accompanying his words with a wry smile.

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘All I know is its reputation for evil. It was used in African witchcraft as a poison and in the trial of those caught transgressing tribal laws. It was administered to the victim by forced ingestion. If they vomited and lived, they were deemed not guilty. If they died, as they usually did, it was considered that they had received a fitting punishment for their crime.’

  ‘And my father chose it as an antidote?’ said Lily, shaking her head.

  ‘Hmm. I would agree that it hardly seems appropriate,’ replied Spydre contemplatively.

  ‘Maybe it formed a compound with the other reagent. What do you know of Indian snakeroot?’

  ‘Again, not much. It is a herb that derives its name from its reputation as an antidote to the venom of certain snakes. It has been used in India for thousands of years. I also know it has tranquillising effects. Eastern spiritualists utilise it as an aid to their meditation, I believe.

  ‘I think we should do some research of our own, Lily,’ he said, holding up the book. ‘Let us see if we can find the answers in here.’

  Spydre’s twisted hands shook with a fine tremor as he turned the pages, looking for the relevant entries. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said eventually. ‘Now, Lily, pass me the magnifying glass,’ he added, pointing to an object that lay out of his reach on the bedside table. ‘The text is far too small for me to read with these ancient eyes of mine.’

  Spydre thumbed back and forth between pages. At last, he set the book down on his lap and closed his eyes following the exertion. ‘You know, Lily, your father really is a genius,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Why, what does it say?’

  ‘It only confirms what I already knew about your father’s encyclopaedic knowledge. The Calabar bean is from the genus Physostigma. It contains a drug called physostigmine, which antagonises atropine by negating its effect on acetylcholine.

  ‘Similarly, Indian snakeroot contains reserpine, which counteracts the effect of atropine in a slightly different way.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Reserpine lowers blood pressure, reduces fever and acts as a tranquilliser; actions that are contradictory to atropine in every way.’

  ‘It’s incredible that he knew how these agents would work,’ agreed Lily.

  ‘Not only that, Lily, but what astonishes me most is that these drugs are both extremely potent poisons in their own right. Henry undoubtedly had to ensure that he used exactly the right dose, particularly as he elected to use them in combination. I do not doubt that either of these drugs is capable of resulting in death, and it is entirely possible that, rather than saving my life, they could just as easily have hastened my demise!’

  Following a loud rap on the door, Mrs Brimstork came bustling into the room. Spydre had just enough time to hide the book under the bedclothes before the housekeeper looked in his direction.

  ‘It’s about time you took a rest, sir …’ said Mrs Brimstork, ‘and you should be getting on with your studies, young lady,’ she added, looking at Lily disapprovingly. ‘Mr Mirkstone has been waiting for you downstairs for a while now and y
ou should not be disturbing the gentleman like this. He needs to recuperate.’

  Lily got up from the bed, nodding in acquiescence at Mrs Brimstork while still managing to cast a furtive smile in Spydre’s direction before making her apologies and heading downstairs.

  17

  THE STONE OF MADNESS

  Styx’s Legacy

  AURELIA NIGHTSHADE HAD NOT been idle in the weeks following receipt of the black pearl that had summoned her to Riddlescombe, and despite her initial scepticism at Frankl’s revelations, she had spent more and more time reflecting on the events of that day. She had tried to be objective and cast aside her loathing of Frankl—a throwback to his obsequious behaviour around Pearly—but the more she thought about it, the more she was intrigued.

  Pearly had always been obsessive in his quest for power verging on a psychotic megalomania, but his other motives had been about as clear to her as the fog that had lingered over the capital for the past few days. Pearly had been driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and it seemed reasonable to assume that Frankl’s quest was inextricably linked with whatever Pearly had been fixated on at the time of his death.

  She knew Pearly had spent much of his time delving into obscure alchemical secrets, fervently believing that they held the key to both his future and that of the Order, but to what end? Was it power or wealth, or some other mystical panacea he had been searching for? She did not know, but Pearly had become increasingly distracted in the months leading up to his death, and whenever she had tried to question him, all he would say was that it was a matter of life or death.

  And now, she had an irksome hunch that Frankl was on the verge of discovering the truth behind Pearly’s secret. This thought thrilled and appalled her in equal measure, kindling her interest to the point that she was prepared to play along with Frankl’s plan. It galled her to think, however, that Frankl was the prime mover in recent events, and she cursed herself for her lassitude following Pearly’s demise when she should have been searching for whatever had energised him rather than wallowing in self-pity. This realisation had, rather belatedly, galvanised her into action, and for the time being, she would continue to flatter Frankl and play along with his scheme. Beyond that, well, she would just have to wait and see.

  For starters, she had been happy to play her part in stalling Price, and she had taken a perverse pleasure in reverting to her old ways. The success of the scheme that had almost seen the end of the doddering bookseller had taken her back to the days of the Order when she had organised and executed Pearly’s plans with a thrilling exhilaration, a feeling she had not experienced in years.

  She was flattered that Frankl had given her free rein to accomplish the job in her own inimitable style, and she had set to it with all her usual gusto. Following some simple but discreet surveillance, she had soon established the connection that existed between Price and his friend. She knew from her scrapes with Price in the past that if anything posed a threat to an ally, he would do everything in his power to help them out. Some would see this as enviable loyalty, but to Aurelia, it was a sign of weakness and one that she was happy to exploit. Even she had been surprised by the effortlessness of her plan, and the fact that the old man still lived was irrelevant. No. What mattered was that she had kept Price out of the way, allowing Lex to proceed with what he excelled in best, not to mention the not-so-subtle announcement that she was back.

  Aurelia always knew that Price would do everything in his power to track her down after Pearly’s death. She had spent many years on the run, only ever managing to stay ahead of her pursuers by expending vast amounts of cash secreted in numerous vaults and safety deposit boxes scattered around the globe. Her ability to bribe, corrupt and blackmail had never been more useful, and while her dwindling cash reserves was a source of considerable irritation, it had helped to keep her safe from Price and the far-reaching tentacles of Internal Security.

  Following the attack on the old man, it was inevitable that Price would rekindle his efforts to find her, and so she had returned to a favourite haunt, one of several safe houses based around the capital. The small, deceptively spacious town house located in a quiet, fashionable part of the city was a place where Price would never find her. The house was a stone’s throw from the upper reaches of the Thames, an area beloved of rowers, lovers, starlings, joggers, film crews, students, fishermen, exhibitionists, and in Aurelia’s case, fugitives. The area attracted an eclectic mix of wealthy inhabitants like magnets to a pole, drawn by various opulent boutiques, restaurants, cafés and wine bars located there. In an area frequented by tax evaders, gamblers, property developers, city boys, embezzlers, corporate lawyers and fraudsters, Aurelia could not fail to blend in. Such a unique ecological niche also afforded her the luxury of living with profligacy and anonymity borne of the ill-gotten wealth that somehow seemed to flourish there.

  The house was set over three floors, as luxurious inside as it was nondescript outside, and the place to which Aurelia always returned when there was work to do. The quiet, walled enclosure at the back of the house was nothing more than a pleasant inner city garden to the casual onlooker, but to Aurelia, it was a source of some of the deadliest concoctions she had ever cultivated. The house was nestled amidst a row of strikingly similar terraced houses with a small strip of garden suggesting nothing more than a pleasant sanctuary in a thriving community. On the property’s south-facing rear wall was a well-established wistaria with bare, gnarled intertwining vines looking like the ancient limbs of a misshapen old man, and despite the plant’s opulent appearance when in full splendour, its seeds harboured a toxic glycoside sure to incapacitate when appropriately administered. The wistaria was merely an entrée to some of the more lethal contents of the garden, including wolfsbane, cowslip, hemlock, lobelia, foxglove, moonseed, oleander, mandrake, cocklebur and the star lily, all innocently growing in a veritable conglomeration of murder and mayhem. The garden was Aurelia’s very own potion store, readily available for use at a moment’s notice, but apart from a subtle disturbance of soil around the base of a tall herbaceous perennial— a rather fine specimen of deadly nightshade—the garden had lain dormant for some time.

  In the aftermath of Frankl’s seaside sojourn, Aurelia had given up her coastal retreat for the city with the intention of finding out what he was up to and to start some preparations of her own. She had kept in touch with Lex during his trip overseas until the day of the theft but had heard nothing of him since. She had scoured the news for days, looking for any hint of his demise, until finally, she had come across a few lines in the foreign section of the Comet detailing a break-in at a not-so-important library in Amsterdam. The brief article made little significance of the theft of a worthless manuscript, but on the basis that the perpetrator had not been apprehended, Aurelia was prepared to bet that Lex had met with his usual success. She assumed, therefore, that he was already on his way home, raising the prospect that Frankl would soon get his grubby hands on the manuscript. If she was right, Frankl would be in touch very soon, and so she needed to be ready.

  She began by concocting a diverse selection of unsavoury potions in the property’s beautifully fashioned laboratory. The secret room adjoining the kitchen was home to a vast array of chemical equipment in which her supply from the garden could be pounded, mixed, heated, condensed and distilled into whatever took her fancy.

  After hours of painstaking labour, Aurelia was delighted with the outcome, ranging from a colourless, odourless fluid that killed silently in minutes, to a supply of white granular crystals that, on contact with the eyes, induced temporary blindness in seconds. After whiling away the days in unbridled satisfaction, manufacturing a pharmacological arsenal of incapacitation and death, she knew that the inevitable call would come. In the meantime, she was happy to continue with her preparations so that when the summons came, she would be ready.

  *

  Liquid Lex’s European excursion did not end as he had anticipated thanks to the sudden appearance of
an aggrieved Ackerman looking like a gun-toting cowboy swaggering out from the O.K. Corral. Lex’s recollection of what happened next was vague, and after attempting to wrest the gun from his assailant, it all went black. He could distinctly recollect the deafening sound of a discharging gun, and knew it had been pointing directly at him at the time. He also recalled a hefty blow to the chest that had sent him careering into a solid brick wall, but after that, nothing. The next he knew was a slow return to consciousness and a splitting headache that made him wince every time he moved.

  As he came to his senses, he expected to see a pool of warm, sickly-sweet blood gathering around him, but apart from an uncommonly large egg on his head, there was barely a mark to see. As he staggered fitfully to his feet, he dared not stop to question his good fortune. He stepped around Ackerman, who was groaning incomprehensibly on the ground while clutching his face with soot-blackened hands, and left without further ado.

  Despite the indeterminate period of catalepsy, Lex still arrived with time to spare to catch the first train out for The Hague and thence The Hook, where he gratefully rendezvoused with the skipper as previously arranged. The wily old sea dog immediately sensed something was amiss, and refused to embark until Lex, much to his chagrin, was forced to pay a hugely inflated price for the crossing.

  Lex only unfurled his overcoat and fished out the stolen manuscript in the seclusion of his cabin once the boat was out to sea. To Lex, the manuscript looked like any other ancient, weather-beaten tome, identical to the book Frankl had extravagantly brandished in the cave a few weeks earlier. As he strained to inspect the book in the dim light, his eyes were drawn to a small, irregular hole passing through the front cover, scorched and blackened around its margin. He ran a finger across the imperfection and was astonished to see a sooty deposit come away on his hand. He was sure the blemish had not been there before, but in a flash of inspiration, he understood—it was a bullet hole! He beamed at his luck. He opened the book and re-read the obscure statement written on the first page and noted a small hole running through its centre. He wondered what Frankl would make of the adulteration to his prized possession, but he was relieved to note that the bullet had not passed beyond the first few pages. He removed the projectile and held it up to the light. He could not believe it; he had been saved by a stolen book!