“It appears that we have reached another dead end,” I lamented.
“Hmmm,” mumbled Urban-Smith, gazing out of the taxi window at the rows of shops hurtling by. Clearly, he had no wish to discuss the matter at this juncture, so I sat in silence, listening to the taxi driver hum tunelessly along to his radio.
“Is that not your ringtone?” observed Urban-Smith as the opening bars of, ‘Keep on Loving You,’ drifted to us over the airwaves.
“Indeed it is,” I confirmed. “REO Speedwagon’s finest hour.”
“Gracious!” Urban-Smith ejaculated, and slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course. How did I not see it sooner?” He rapped excitedly upon the glass that separated us from our driver, causing the man to startle.
“Driver,” Urban-Smith cried urgently. “Take us to Westminster, Bullbrass Place. Pray do not dilly-dally, dither, tarry or vacillate.”
“I naprawdę, naprawdę, naprawdę chcą zig-a-zig ahh (I really, really, really want to zig-a-zig ahh),” confirmed the cabman, slamming the car into a lower gear and stamping upon the accelerator with such force that Urban-Smith and I were flung back against our seats.
“Good heavens, Fairfax!” I exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this?” but he would not be drawn.
Our taxi raced through the dense London traffic, slicing between the other vehicles as if they were not there, and it was only a few minutes until we screeched to a halt a few houses down from Sir Godfrey Pingum’s townhouse. I staggered from the cab, my heart aflutter and my nerves severely jarred, but Urban-Smith seemed unaffected by our perilous passage, positively frothing with excitement and hopping from foot to foot as I paid our driver, tipping him a florin for his troubles.
“Zing! Poszedł struny moim sercu (Zing! Went the strings of my heart),” he cried with glee, tugging his forelock and weeping with gratitude.
“Hurry, Rupert,” insisted Urban-Smith, tugging at my jacket collar, “we have no time to waste.”
We hastened down the walkway that led to the rear of the row of houses and made our way around the back of Sir Godfrey’s property. His back door had been crudely repaired, and was now fitted with a hasp and staple, secured by a thick padlock. A Metropolitan Police crime scene notice was attached to the door, counselling us of the illegality of entering the property.
Urban-Smith reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a slim leather case.
“Lock-picks,” he explained, selecting a pair of metal instruments, reminiscent of scalpel handles, but with a serrated end. He scrabbled and scraped at the padlock for a while until there was a click, and he grunted with satisfaction. “We’re in.”
He set aside the padlock and opened the door, looking this way and that to ensure that we were unobserved. We crept into the kitchen, taking care not to step in the puddle of congealed blood upon the floor, and snuck through the dining room to the entrance hall and thence up the stairs to the first floor living room. Urban-Smith went to the window and drew the blinds, then indicated for me to switch the light on, which I did using my elbow so as not to leave any fingerprints.
Against the wall, between the large flat-screened television and a low cabinet upon which rested Sir Godfrey’s CD player and amplifier, stood a set of shelf units, packed from floor to ceiling with compact discs.
“Excellent,” muttered Urban-Smith as he worked his way across the shelves. “Sir Godfrey has placed his discs in alphabetical order.”
I turned to inspect the photographs upon the mantel, and only a few moments later, Urban-Smith hailed me.
“Here it is, Rupert,” he said, brandishing a copy of REO Speedwagon’s Greatest Hits. “I do believe that this is the volume to which Sir Godfrey wished to draw our attention.”
And then, of course, I saw it. REO Speedwagon; something-something- dwagon.
Urban-Smith flipped open the CD case and, with a cry of triumph, liberated a silver compact disc, marked only with the manufacturer’s name.
“If only I had thought to stop for my laptop,” he lamented.
“I’ll be needing that disc, if you don’t mind, Mr Urban-Smith.”
Urban-Smith and I wheeled about in surprise to see our taximan standing in the doorway, gun in hand. Gone was the Polish accent and the thick beard, and now I recognised him.
“You,” I spluttered. “You are Mr Church’s driver.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t recognise me the other day, Dr Harker.”
I stared intently at him, but could not picture him in any other scenario. He recognised my incomprehension and issued a short bark of laughter.
“Had you not wondered, Dr Harker, why it is that all of your taxi drivers are Polish? I have driven you around London on several occasions.”
“Your Polish is extremely convincing,” acknowledged Urban-Smith, “but from your accent, I have no doubt that you were born and educated in England.”
“You are correct,” came the reply, “but you would be surprised how unguarded passengers’ conversations are when they think that their driver has a poor grasp of English.” He smiled and motioned with his gun. “We have been following your movements for some time, Mr Urban-Smith.”
“Is Mr Church also working for the Fervent Fist?”
“We are not with The Fervent Fist,” he snapped, clearly affronted. “We are MI6; British Intelligence.” He tutted, and rolled his eyes. “Why do you think it reads, ‘MI6 taxis,’ on the side of the cars?”
Urban-Smith seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought it was some sort of pun. It never occurred that it should be taken literally.”
“That’s the problem with men like you,” the driver sighed. “You search for cryptic messages and hidden meanings where there are none to be found. Sometimes, things are exactly as they seem.” He brandished his weapon menacingly. “Now please, replace the disc in its case and slide it across the floor to me.”
It was apparent that we had no option and, with a look of bitter defeat upon his face, Urban-Smith did as instructed.
“What are your intentions?”
“This disc,” replied our captor, liberating said disc from the floor without taking his eyes or gun from us, “must never see the light of day.”
“But it contains the names of agents of The Fervent Fist,” I protested. “Surely, MI6 have an interest in protecting the public?”
“That is precisely why this information must not become a matter of public record,” he replied. “If the names on this list were to find their way into the press or onto the internet, the British people would be scandalised beyond belief. Society would be shaken to its very core. Our country has suffered enough.” He took a step back towards the stairs. “Fear not. We shall examine the contents of this disc thoroughly, and should the situation call for it, we shall act accordingly.”
“But, what does that mean?” I insisted, but the conversation was at an end. Church’s driver scurried away down the stairs, and we listened, powerless, as he made his way through the dining room and kitchen and into the rear courtyard, closing the back door behind him.
“What are we to do now?” I asked, but Urban-Smith did not reply. He had seated himself on the sofa, and was now in a state of abstraction with his eyes closed, hands upon his lap, and his fingers writhing and flexing in the most bizarre and wretched contortions.
I had seen this on several occasions, for Urban-Smith, amongst his many achievements, had attained 4th level practitioner status in the ancient art of Yandra; tantric hand yoga.
The origins of Yandra can be traced back to the eighth century in Southern India. It is based upon the principle that the hands are the keys to unlocking the inner self, and to free the hands from the constraints of their traditional orientation is to free the spirit. Over the centuries, it had led to the development of shadow puppetry, but was also a technique popularised by Harry Houdini, allowing him to free himself from manacles and bonds that would otherwise have been unescapable.
I had known Urban-Smith use the technique t
o free himself from handcuffs and ropes, but he also employed it to free his subconscious when a heavy problem had come to bear upon him. Clearly, this was such a time, so I took a seat beside him on the sofa and sat quietly, waiting for him to come out of his trance.
We sat for several minutes until Urban-Smith’s Yandric efforts ceased. He turned to me, flushed.
“All is becoming clear, Rupert. The dwagon, MI6 taxis, The Atman. Our assailant was correct. In my desire to unravel the truth, I have been probing too deeply. I have been peering into the shadows when what I seek is right before me, fully illuminated.” A broad grin split his features. “I know where to find The Fourth Atman. Do you recall what Konrad Schwarzkröte told us about his brother, Sebastian, when we met him in the Museum of Natural History?”
“I remember most clearly.” I was hardly likely to have forgotten. During our meeting, Konrad Schwarzkröte had started a gunfight with the FSB before kidnapping me at gunpoint, and finally turning his gun upon himself in the shadow of the museum’s replica diplodocus skeleton.
“Then you will recall that Sebastian Schwarzkröte lost an eye in an accident.”
“Correct,” I confirmed.
“And that his dying words were, ‘I got soul.’”
“Indeed.”
Urban-Smith glanced towards the door to ensure that the taxi driver had not snuck back up the stairs to eavesdrop upon our conversation.
“Rupert,” he whispered. “I got soul. Perhaps it is not I, as in I, but eye, as in E-Y-E.” He raised his eyebrows and stared at me while I considered his words.
“Are you suggesting that The 4th Atman is hidden inside Sebastian Schwarzkröte’s eye?”
“Think about it, Rupert. After his death, Sebastian’s body and house were thoroughly searched, and no trace of The Atman found, but I am prepared to wager that none will have thought to examine his replacement eye.”
“I must concede that it sounds like a reasonable hypothesis,” said I, “but what do you propose?”
“I propose that you and I pay the late Sebastian Schwarzkröte a visit.”
I was aghast.
“Surely not, Fairfax. Are you suggesting that we exhume the man’s corpse?”
“Indeed I am, Rupert.” He sprang up from the sofa. “Come. Let us summon a taxicab back to Chuffnell Mews, for there is much to plan.”
“Well,” I grumbled, reaching for my mobile telephone, “I shan’t be calling upon the services of MI6 taxis again. From now on, I shall be relying on KBG Kabs.”
*
22. I Got Soul
Sunday the 11th
It was one o’clock on Sunday morning as Urban-Smith and I climbed from the back of Ulysses’ Volvo estate car, parked in a layby a hundred yards south of the entrance to Brocklegate Cemetery, the final resting place of the late Sebastian Schwarzkröte.
Ulysses climbed from the car and watched as we collected our tools from the boot of the car.
“Thank you again, Ulysses,” said Urban-Smith. “I really don’t know what we would have done without you. Even the least observant of taxi drivers may have found something peculiar in two gentlemen asking to be delivered to a cemetery in the early hours with shovels.”
“Always a pleasure, Fairfax.” Ulysses looked this way and that, but of other traffic, there was no sign. “Care to tell me what you have in mind?”
“Sorry, Ulysses.” Urban-Smith handed me a shovel and pulled the car boot closed as quietly as he was able. “I think it best that we incriminate you as little as possible. All I will ask is that you remain here with the lights off until our return. However,” said he, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a piece of stiff white card, “should we fail to return within the hour, or should anything untoward take place, you are to ring this number without delay and apprise them of the situation. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, thank you, Fairfax.”
“Excellent. Come, Rupert. We have work to attend to.”
*
Brocklegate cemetery is a modest-sized cemetery, home to about fifteen hundred graves, and nestles snugly at the southernmost edge of Cambridgeshire County. It is a truly beautiful spot, towards the top of Gooch Hill, with a glorious view over the nearby villages of Biffin Bridge and East Grundle.
Despite this, the only thought running through my mind as Urban-Smith and I crept between the rows of grubby gravestones, armed with torches and shovels, was that this night could easily spell the end of my career and reputation. Imagine the headlines; “Doctor of Death. Pathologist caught taking work home with him.”
“Rupert!” Urban-Smith’s urgent hissing brought me out of my morbid reverie. “Rupert. Shine your light over here.”
The wet grass slurped at my trouser bottoms, leaving them uncomfortably moist, and our torch beams bounced back into our eyes, reflected from the rolling fog that seems to gravitate to these sorts of places.
“How do we find the right grave?” I asked.
“The graveyard is divided into sections. Each section consists of twelve rows of twelve graves. Thirteen is considered an unlucky number, even amongst the dead. Sebastian Schwarkröte’s grave is in section seven, row F, number eight. The headstone will bear the name, ‘Sebastian Kaminsky,’ his chosen alias.”
We shone our light hither and thither, making our way to the edge of the graveyard.
“Section five,” I observed.
“We need to follow the rows south.” And so we did, and soon we came across the northernmost tip of section eight, from whence it was a simple matter to locate the correct row and grave. Urban-Smith scrabbled about the headstone, clearing away moss and ivy to reach the inscription.
“This is it,” he announced triumphantly, laying his torch upon the ground and rolling his sleeves up in preparation of the dig.
“One moment, Fairfax.”
He paused. “What is it, Rupert?”
“Just think about what we are doing; desecrating a grave. What of our souls? What of our humanity? Can we really justify this kind of aberrant behaviour?”
The answer was curt and direct. “We can and must.” He picked up his spade and plunged it into the damp earth, and with a deep sigh, I did the same. We dug in silence for there was nothing else to say. From about us, there came the chirp of the crickets, the regular whoosh of the traffic on the Gurnley bypass to our west, and the occasional shriek of a fox. Like Dante, we slowly descended into the earth, heaping the dirt to either side while my arms ached and burned with the effort of raising each shovelful further than the last. Eventually, there was a hollow scrape as Urban-Smith’s implement struck the lid of Schwarzkröte’s coffin.
“Eureka!” he whispered. “You shine the light, and I shall pry open the lid.”
With his assistance, I gratefully clambered out from the grave to retrieve my torch, hovering at the graveside and shining the beam downwards while Urban-Smith scrabbled and scraped until he was able to locate the coffin’s rim.
“The crowbar, Rupert. Pass me the crowbar.”
The coffin was of sturdy construction (I briefly pondered how impressed Nell would have been had she been present), and had only been in the ground for a little over a decade, and it took much frantic heaving and tugging before the lid was finally freed.
The smell, as expected, was atrocious, and Urban-Smith gagged and retched as the fetid stench rose to greet him. The remains of Sebastian Schwarzkröte lay supine, arms folded across his chest, clad in a sombre, brown tweed suit, which was stained and damp but mostly intact, unlike the gentleman himself, whose hands and head were little more than bone, although dry scraps of skin clung here and there to the scalp, with a few residual tufts of hair about the perimeter of the crown.
Schwarzkröte’s skull has fallen to the side, his empty eye socket gazing forlornly at the coffin’s silken lining, and his jaw hanging open, toothless and limp. Urban-Smith gently grasped the skull and straightened it, letting out a quiet murmur of satisfaction as my torchlight glinted upon the shiny surface
of Schwarzkröte’s glass eye. With no muscle or skin remaining, the eye sat loosely in the skull and required merely a tap to dislodge it. Urban-Smith held the false eyeball aloft and rotated it slowly. In the torchlight, I could see that the front had been painted white, with a brown iris and black pupil, but the rear half was translucent.
“Turn off the torch, Rupert.”
I did as instructed and let out a gasp. In the blackness, the eyeball twinkled and glowed from a tiny point of light deep within. It stuttered and flickered, and the glass refracted the glare like a tiny disco-ball, symmetrical patterns glancing about the walls of the grave.
“Amazing!” muttered Urban-Smith. “More than sixty years separated from its host, and still it lives.”
I flicked the torch back on. “Come on, Fairfax. Time to go.”
Before he could answer, there was a thunk, and a shard of stone flew from the headstone beside me. I whipped about and almost slid into the grave with surprise.
“Did you see that?” I asked
“I heard, but did not see. What happened?”
Again the thunk, and another piece of stone pinged from the headstone.
“Gunfire!” blurted Urban-Smith. “Rupert. Get down.”
I threw myself flat to the wet ground and rolled over, dropping into the grave and cursing loudly as I bumped and scraped myself upon the rim of the coffin. I came to rest face to face with the late Sebastian Schwarzkröte’s eyeless skull gazing at me with indignant disapproval.
There were several more pings and thunks as bullets ripped into the headstone, and I dug into my pocket for my telephone and pressed the three nines.
“There’s no signal.” My mouth was as dry as a camel’s martini. “Why is there no signal?”
“They’re using a jammer.” Urban-Smith tutted at me irritably. “I have to say, Rupert, of all the places to have sought shelter, this is the absolute worst for you to have chosen. We are trapped together like olives in a salad.”
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