Agatha & the Scarlet Scarab

by Karl Fish

  ‘Please, wash your hands and put on the surgical clothes, Professor,’ Mr Louds said.

  Professor Meredith Malcolm had achieved a first-class doctorate but was in no terms a man of practising medicine. He was, however, a huge fan of pristine white garments. He removed his outer linen suit jacket, the one which had been spoilt by the single droplet of his own blood, and replaced it with a surgeon’s set of overalls.

  ‘One last item, Professor. Please, wear this at all times,’ Mr Louds ordered. He presented him with a gas mask. It was like any other gas mask, only the glass was tinted with a violet hue.

  On entering the corridor of operating theatres, the lighting and mood were completely different from the stark clinical white of the institute’s primary corridors and convalescent wards. His surroundings seemed pink, not rose-tinted by any means, but almost like that of a fuchsia.

  The low drone of repetitive conversation crackled through amplified speakers in each room. The light throbbed to a slow and constant rhythm. It was as if the world had slowed down. The Professor felt nauseous and his immediate reaction was to remove the mask. The orderlies restrained him from doing so as Mr Louds pointed through a window to a man who was sat upright. He was completely conscious but having skin cut away from his inner thigh and then grafted onto his severely scarred face.

  The doctors and nurses all wore gas masks and with the exception of light and sound, it could have been any normal operating theatre. It was, however, the most peculiar and alarming site. The patient did not seem distressed in the slightest as intricate scalpel-cut after scalpel-cut layered small squares of living tissue onto the patient’s lower jaw and cheekbones, which had been the product of a lost aerial battle with a Messerschmitt. The brave pilot was chatting away as if simply visiting a GP, not having major surgery.

  Mr Louds monitored Meredith’s every move. As he watched the Professor wince at the operation, he decided the Professor had seen enough and guided them back out of the operating area.

  Removing his mask and taking a few small pants of breath, like an over-exhausted pup, Meticulous Meredith Malcolm promptly bent over and vomited the tea and toast he had so keenly devoured earlier. Louds was eager to reassure him.

  ‘Come now, Professor. We wouldn’t be human if what we had just been witness to didn’t revile us and wasn’t fully explained. I was terribly sick the first time it happened to me and what’s to say a little “Ether” did not creep in when you tried to remove your mask.’ Taking the light-headed Malcolm by the elbow he sat him on a long white chaise. ‘The skin is a living organism. Once exposed to the elements, the capillaries, the blood cells, all begin an internal battle to stop any alien invaders getting in and wreaking havoc. The downside is that this inevitably kills off the exposed skin and tissue, resulting in scarring, scabbing and the loss of feeling.’

  The professor listened intently but any medical reference, such as blood, or scab, resulted in him retching. Louds chose his words very carefully.

  ‘Our pioneering skin-grafting process, as unpalatable as it may seem, actually eliminates the risks of those losses and unlike traditional medicine and experimentation, it eliminates infections too. Just imagine the possibilities.’

  The Professor composed himself. ‘I imagine there are many people who would not use it in such a way. More likely it would be used to more sickening extremes. Just look across Europe now. How many millions of lives are already lost due to some misguided ideology?’ Meredith Malcolm exclaimed.

  ‘Dearest Professor. I understand. I really do. My people have been persecuted for millennia. But we have never been able to use the Ethereum for any extended period. Certainly not long enough to control any volume of people through misguided doctrine. To the contrary, it has its limitations in operating, and beyond a few hours its effects wear off,’ Louds responded tolerantly.

  Professor Malcolm shook his head in disbelief. There were far too many risks as far as he could see it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Louds. I cannot help you,’ the Professor replied.

  ‘Very well. If that is your final decision.’ Louds nodded forthrightly. ‘Escort Professor Malcolm back to his laboratory. He is free to go once he has his things.’

  The two hulking orderlies stood either side of the Professor and walked him back up the incline, past the picture-less frames, through the long, stone passageway, and into the unique laboratory that Dr Mialora had curated for him.

  ‘Hello, Professor,’ came a pleasant female voice as he entered. She was admiring the Death-stalkers in their glass cabinet. ‘I, am Jennifer James. Dr Mialora’s personal assistant.’ She beamed.

  ‘I’d like to leave now,’ the Professor responded, unimpressed by the assistant’s charms.

  Exhaling the smoke from her slender cigarette that matched her slender and elegant height, she turned and glided over to him. ‘Are you sure you wish to leave, Professor? Just look at everything you could have here. Dr Mialora is a very generous patron.’

  ‘Positive,’ the Professor responded curtly and beyond hesitation.

  ‘But such a riddle, Professor. Such an opportunity to prove yourself.’

  An intimate drag on the cigarette and Jennifer Jones exhaled a wisp of violet vapour that danced through the Professors moustache and was inhaled through his nose.

  ‘You want to leave. NO?’ she asked again.

  ‘NO,’ he responded after a slight delay.

  ‘You’d like to help us. YES?’ she continued.

  ‘YES,’ came his lethargic answer.

  ‘Very good, Professor. Why don’t you get some sleep and in the morning we can make plans,’ she finished.

  Professor Malcolm began to yawn. He now felt sleepy. The orderlies took him under each arm and dragged him by his toes to a small bed that had been made up in the laboratory’s corner.

  Jennifer James smiled with satisfaction. ‘He must be monitored at all times,’ she ordered. ‘Not from within the laboratory. We need him to believe he is isolated. You must document and monitor his every finding, his every move,’ she insisted.

  The two orderlies nodded in compliance.

  Professor Malcolm snored effortlessly in the corner as Jennifer James left the laboratory and disappeared from the Silvera Institute and into the cold autumn night to initiate her plan.

  *****

  Midday had come and gone hours since. Only a tyrant would’ve kept his soldiers and staff working into the late hours on Sunday Harvest, and since they had worked so diligently to remove the rubble and debris from the Eastern Quarter, Major Boyd Collingdale had allowed them to leave on the stroke of twelve. He’d remained to pursue his own efforts to find the Professor, toiling through dust and sweat to clear a path.

  The pillar, which had run at an adjacent forty-five degrees, was now completely clear, and where the broken and battered supporting foundations had capitulated during the airstrike a fortnight previously, his team had come up with an ingenious way to support the walls and joists.

  Where concrete and clay once stood, now a tunnel of wooden and glass exhibit stands lined the corridor. How fitting such a peculiar entranceway could’ve been built to welcome everyone into the Professor’s beloved Entomology department. On one side were primates, mammals, and predators. On the other side, birds and reptiles lined up in expressionless taxidermy to welcome the Major in and out of the Professor’s lab. The job was not complete, just the opening into the bomb site had been finished. This still left the department’s many exhibits, both live and dead, shattered and scattered in what remained.

  The Major had a severe dislike for anything that demonstrated more than four legs, and as afternoon cast a shrouded loneliness into the cavernous Museum, each lamp he had set up to navigate into the darker confines of Meredith’s world was now targeted by the creatures of the night. Whirring and buzzing busily above him, undertaking airborne battles and reconnaissance of their prey before landing for respite on electric lamp or gaslight before they reached out again. Boyd had tire
d of his futile attempts to thrash the bugs away with the Peacekeeper and instead made a carefully trodden methodical path, stepping in and out of the shadows of the light where the insects now congregated.

  The terrible stench of rotting and decay was ever-present as he feared for his colleague’s fate and the inevitability of the cadaver he would stumble upon soon. Only occasionally lighting up his battery-powered torch he would focus on an object or obstacle to navigate. As the batteries tired and the bulb flickered and failed, the Major stumbled over a heavy object underfoot. The torch fell from his grasp and he was plunged into darkness. His vision now impaired but his hearing heightened he sat there as he heard the tiny macerating sounds of a league of creepy crawlies working over a human carcass. Something crawled across his arm making him jump and shudder. He stood to his feet and scratched himself down from head to foot. His eyes, now adjusting to the enveloping darkness, caught the corner of a large desk. Pigeon-step by pigeon-step, for fear of risking a similar stumble, the Major edged towards the desk space until finally his outstretched arm clung to the corner. Placing his hand on top and feeling across the torn, green velvet baize, he felt amongst the dirt and tiny rubble rocks to where several ink-pens, pieces of paper, and envelopes lay. Something cold peaked his touch and made him jump. Thankfully it wasn’t moving. It was actually metal and, on closer inspection, was a small set of keys. Perhaps, he thought, Meredith kept a pipe lighter or even a small torch within the desk drawers. Fumbling away, key by key, into the challenging tiny lock holes he patiently tried each of the keys one at a time before finally, the first drawer unlocked. His hands felt around inside. The coldness of a cartridge pen, the solidity of an inkpot, the sharp sting of a drawing pin until finally the pleasant rattle of a small cardboard box. The red phosphorous and powdered glass that made up the rough striking side of the box confirmed to Major Collingdale he had found matches.

  The first match struck effortlessly and the sense of relief sent a warm glow over the Major before a minute’s worth of flame burned itself out. Realising there were limited matches to strike and limited time to use the light once struck, Collingdale reached across the desk and procured a piece of paper. This time he struck the match and lit the paper. The light was far more ferocious as was the burn time and in those precious few seconds he spotted a stubby wax candle, the one Meredith would often use late at night, which had toppled off of the desk and was now on the floor. Searching across the desk once more for an object to light he fumbled a sealed envelope. Unable to pay any attention to its cover, he lit the corner and moved over to the candle. The envelope corner burned quickly but as soon as the candle was lit the Major blew the envelope out and tossed it back on to the desk. Now with more time, at the expense of the slowly reducing wick, Boyd Collingdale held the candle in front of him as the hot wax trickled down his wrist and bonded them together.

  At first, he thought it had been the shadow of his own but a second glance through the flickering candlelight produced the shocking image of a grasping hand reaching out from a fallen exhibit case. The Major moved swiftly towards the claw-like hand and inadvertently to the source of the stench where he crunched insect after insect underfoot.

  ‘Oh, good God.’ He sighed under his moustache. ‘I’m so sorry, Professor.’

  In front of him lay the body of a man dressed in faultless linens, though now filthy and neglected. His face lay planted into the floor below and his body was overrun with creepy crawlies and critters. Perhaps this was how he would’ve wished to have gone, Collingdale considered. As he took a minute to step back from his colleague’s corpse, he slipped on a crunch of material underfoot. Pulling it out and dusting it down, it was another straw hat.

  ‘That’s strange, why would he have two hats?’ Collingdale asked himself. But then again, Meredith Malcolm was quirky and strange. Holding the candle aloft, he ran one last look over the Professor’s body. He didn’t have the strength to lift the exhibition case crushing it from on top. Linens from top to toe and from beneath the face on the floor a moustache presented itself. What was he thinking? Of course it was his old adversary. His hand outstretched in a final desperate cry for help. But what was that reflecting back, a gold band on his ring finger? Boyd hadn’t known the Professor was a married man. How could he have not known that?

  The candle wax ran its last drips down the Major’s hand. He had no intention of spending the remaining hours of that night next to a corpse. For fear of creating another catastrophe, he moved across the broken glass and exhibits back to the safety of the desk just before the wick danced its final death. There he would wait until he could seek out light in the dawn.

  Chapter 18

  Sunset and dawn

  Sunday evening had come swiftly in Ambledown. The excitement of pastures new and the accentuated fear from Lyle’s attack had exhausted and petrified the young teenage girl, who had just days before been unceremoniously kidnapped from her loving Aunt Florrie in London.

  Physically stuffed from the sumptuous marsh mutton stew she and her uncle had consumed in the company of the man-mountain Pop Braggan, Agatha was now safely tucked away in the drawing-room of 1a The Keep. Uncle Gideon as her guardian was now ruing his decision to leave her for a few moments in the company of Cecile and the serviceman at Le Chat Noir.

  ‘It was a foolish, foolish thing to have done, Aggie,’ Gideon said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t mean to run off. Purrsia the cat just broke free and before I knew it I was ... well …’ Aggie began to cry, recollecting the vicious little wretch Lyle and his attempts to attack her.

  ‘I didn’t mean you, my love. It was foolish of me to have left you. No matter how much I trust Cecile. I’m truly sorry. Your mother would have killed me.’ He shook his head. Disgusted with himself.

  They cuddled each other for a moment both tearful and tired.

  ‘I think an early night is in order, don’t you?’ Gideon suggested.

  Aggie nodded, much safer now in the home spent during fond holidays as a child. But nevertheless not as secure as she’d felt at Florrie’s in London. Ambledown had so many secrets still left for her to discover.

  ‘Tomorrow you will start school,’ Gideon advised to much protestation.

  ‘But what if Lyle comes back when you’re not there again?’ Aggie responded, frowning at her uncle.

  Gideon, who was feeling guilty enough, offered as much comfort as he could. ‘Lyle is nothing more than a pint-sized bully and the commonest of thieves –’ he began.

  ‘A pint-sized bully who carries a knife,’ Aggie interrupted.

  ‘I’ve never seen him behave like that before,’ Gideon continued. ‘No doubt it was the result of too much ale, and besides my friends have taken care of him. Pop Braggan is his uncle and word would have reached him already. Pop will not allow Lyle back to Ambledown while you remain here. You have nothing to fear.’

  Aggie could not be convinced. She turned her head away from Gideon and just scrunched herself up into a ball across the chaise lounge in his drawing-room. She stared into the crackling logs from the fireplace. It reminded her of looking out on the fires of London just before this all began. Thoughts lent themselves to that of her dear old Aunt Florrie and the relief that she was alive. Gideon had so much explaining to do. She couldn’t believe he was immediately packing her off to school already.

  A knock at the door broke the unpleasant silence between niece and uncle, as Gideon left the room to answer it. She lay there gazing into a ballet of flames as the spitting log sap popped and whizzed, and ever so faintly she recalled the distant cries of fire-engine bells as Florrie’s voice hurried her along out of the attic. Her eyes drew heavy and slumber began to ensue.

  ‘If you’re going to fall asleep there, perhaps you’d like some company?’ Gideon asked. He had returned with a worn-out apple box filled with old newspapers and rags.

  As Aggie was poised to express that she would prefer an evening of isolation and staying snuggled in front of the bla
zing hearth, a small bundle of cloth was placed upon her. It was wriggling and writhing to join her under the blanket. A deep purring woke her attention as the hairless cat nuzzled its nose into hers.

  ‘Purrsia!’ She smiled, embracing the feline lovingly.

  ‘He has no hair so it was lucky someone found him and brought him here. He could’ve perished in tonight’s cold,’ Gideon explained. ‘Furless cats like these often do.’

  ‘What happened to his fur? Is he sick?’ Aggie asked concerned for the wrinkly old cat now purring in its sleep on her chest.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that cat. It’s just how the Sphinx are bred. They originate from a warmer climate,’ Gideon said.

  Aggie thought nothing of it and closed her eyes, comforted by her feline friend, and fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 19

  A new dawn

  The dawn chorus came outside of the Museum and not before time. Inside, Major Boyd Collingdale had hardly offered up a wink of sleep as he sat in the dark laboratory waiting for any ray of morning light. He’d been too petrified to move, and had been hoping an attentive employee would break through into the insect-ridden tomb of Professor Meredith Malcolm. His night had been interspersed with the creeping and crawling of six-legged beasts that used his brow as a landing zone for their aerial ambitions. One unfortunate bug had entwined itself in his wiry moustache and met a somewhat unceremonious doom. Across his clenched palms longer, multi-legged mini-monsters had taunted him and flirted with The Peacekeeper as he sought to protect himself in the darkness. His mind wandered back to the large pincers and stings on the Death-stalkers and how long it would be until one of them made this night his last. His poor colleague lay there as an edible feast for such creatures and having spotted the ring on his finger the Major knew he would soon have to inform the Professor’s loved ones.

  It was highly unlikely anyone would be in early, not after Sunday Harvest and the general gorging that would have ensued. His only chance of early parole from this laboratory gaol was a bright autumn morning and a cascading ray to help him navigate the myriad obstacles that used to be the entomology and Botanical department.