by Karl Fish
Aggie was warming more and more to Dove. She kept her head down and cleaned away.
Aaagghhhhhhh!’ came a mighty scream from the governess’s office.
‘What on Earth is that?’ Dove said, alarmed. Leaving the ancillary room to investigate. Leaving her charges alone.
‘Oh, look at this one, Chatsmore,’ Smythe said and laughed. ‘It’s so old they have the same shaped crest as your moth-eaten rag,’ she concluded by throwing the old glass photograph so that it smashed just at Aggie’s feet, splintering glass up her leg. Aggie clenched her fist, ready to fight her opponent.
‘Whoops!’ Smythe said bluntly. ‘Silly me. I do apologise, Chatsmore.’
The door then swung back open and it was Lady Huntington-Smythe followed quickly by Dove.
‘Hen, are you OK, my love? Has this girl attacked you again? I heard a crash.’
‘She threw it at me!’ Smythe feigned, forcing tears from her eyes.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Aggie contested.
‘I bet you did,’ Lady Huntington-Smythe snarled back.
‘Oooh noooo she didn’t,’ came the ghostly pantomime voice from above the ceiling.
‘Aghhhhhhhhh!!!’ came the simultaneous scream from all four of the ladies in the room.
‘I told you this place was haunted!’ Lady Huntington-Smythe protested towards Dove. She grabbed her daughter, defied the detention, and left in a hurry.
Aggie was left shrugging her shoulders innocently as Dove stared upwards. ‘Leave the attic space at once, Eric Peabody!’ Dove shouted towards the ceiling.
Eric’s laughter was heard before silence descended on the governess and Aggie who were left alone.
‘I have had quite enough for one day, Chatsmore,’ the governess advised. ‘Can I trust you to clean the rest of these old school photographs, unsupervised, in the remaining detention time you have?’
‘Of course, miss,’ Aggie said and nodded assuredly.
‘Very well. I shall return in just over an hour.’ Dove left, locking the door behind her.
Moving to the shattered frame on the floor, she scooped up the glass and rubbed the photograph over with a damp cloth. The image was intact and beneath the photo it had initials of all the pupils and the teachers. She stared at the innocent smiles of the children gazing back at her. There was a mixture of ages but the majority must have been only six or seven years old. The class was only fifteen or so in numbers and a mixture of girls and boys though two-thirds were male.
‘Ambledown Priory Preparatory 1907-1908’ read the title underneath. True to Henrietta’s observation, the crest, which adorned all of their breast pockets, was the same shape as Aggie’s, albeit Aggie’s was now a darker faded grey where the crest had once resided. It was possible, she thought to herself, that her mother and Uncle Gideon could be amongst these children or at least some of the photographs. She eagerly emptied the boxes in front of her and spread them out in chronological order. She wasn’t exactly sure how old Gideon was but she had a rough idea and could look through them all cross-referencing the initials GB and CB, Gideon and Charlotte – the Belchambers twins.
‘Eric? Eric are you still up there?’ Aggie called out in a muted voice.
‘Noooooo!’ came his laughing ghostly impersonation.
‘Before you leave can you find any old photos and bring them to me.?’
‘There’s loads up here, Aggie. Too many to count.’
‘Can you find any from nineteen hundred to nineteen twenty?’ Aggie asked.
‘Me reading ain’t too good, to be honest. I’ll do me best tho,’ Eric replied.
‘I know, Eric. Look for anyone in the photos who has the same shaped crest on their jackets as I have … well … did. The old style,’ Aggie requested. it was easy to distinguish old from new.
‘OK, I fink I know which ones. Must go now,’ Eric’s voice disappeared as he crept as quietly across joists as he could.
Chapter 28
Revelations
‘Gin, London Dry. Tonic Water, Indian. Lemon, and Mr Louds insisted you had ice too,’ advised the golden-toothed orderly in uniformed fashion as he presented Professor Meredith Malcolm with his reward.
The Professor who was anticipating his libation with an excited preening of his moustache, sat down and began to prepare his drink. Two cubes of ice chinked against the tall glass tumbler. He cut a slither of lemon, executed with the kind support of a sharp laboratory scalpel and placed it neatly next to the glass before applying the alcohol. A generous glug of gin came next and was topped with Indian tonic water. Finally, a squeeze of fresh lemon juice followed by the spiralled zest he had neatly carved and set aside.
‘Very good form. Thank him for me and, please, inform him I will have completed these revised works by nightfall,’ the Professor advised taking the slightest sip of his drink.
The orderly left, leaving the Professor with his reward and allowing him to continue his works alone.
The intricate nature of removing the squares of parchment to reveal the hieroglyphic negatives could not be done so under the influence of alcohol. As soon as the orderly was out of sight, Professor Malcolm spat his sip back into the glass and continued with his work.
*****
Returning to Montague Soames’ chaotic office, Belle and Nathaniel were convinced now, more than ever, that his missing diary entry was no mistake. It was true that the Professor and old spymaster insisted in a disorderly environment as that way any secrets or lies he had to maintain could not be easily deciphered. Nathaniel began to stalk the room for any signs from his old friend’s latest clue.
‘In plane sight,’ he repeated and muttered as he stepped across documents and paraphernalia.
‘You know, Nathaniel, this could all be a ruse and we’re playing right into someone else’s hands,’ Belle suggested.
‘I don’t think so, Belle. It had crossed my mind but you said so yourself that no one else had a key to your cupboard, let alone knew of your diary’s existence. I suspect your old man knows far more than we are giving him credit for. For starters, how could he predict that this torch would unravel the clue, the hidden messages, or even the fact I would come? How could he be certain? I don’t think he could have. However, he saw a pattern, something rang alarm bells, and he hedged his bets he could rely on his puzzle being solved.’
‘If you say so, Nate. So, “In plane sight” … what can we find amongst this mess?’ Belle searched the bookshelf. Typically, it was as disorganised as the rest of the room. Belle searched through the bindings one by one. She procured a book on gliding and one on aircraft engineering. There were no messages attached. She fanned the pages holding them upside down for any notes to descend and float downwards, but nothing. She dimmed the blinds and re-fanned the pages slowly with the violet torch beam but absolutely nothing jumped out.
It remained a frustrating few hours. Outside, the evening was drawing in, Nathaniel and herself needn’t draw the blinds for darkness anymore as the nightlight curfew was upon them and all blinds were closed as due course. Nathaniel Noone paced the room over and over like a caged animal just waiting for that clue to set him free.
‘Your bloody father, Belle. He never made it easy. But it will be here. We’re missing the obvious.’
Belle didn’t like to hear her father and cursing in the same sentence but she shared the frustration of his former protégé. ‘Let’s forget about, ‘In plane sight’, just for a moment,’ she suggested. ‘What do we know about Dad and what looks out of place.’
‘He was a disorganised old bugger, so that discounts nearly the entire room,’ Noone replied sarcastically
‘Exactly. Now, what wasn’t he – tidy, organised? Anything look out of place now?’
Nothing appeared organised to the untrained eye. Everything was in disarray.
‘Wait, did your father ever wear a hat?’ Noone asked Belle with an air of anticipation.
‘I don’t think he ever wore one. Not even in the midday heat of Egypt
as you may recall. He was more likely to wear a headscarf to keep out the sun.’
‘Exactly!’ enthused Noone, stepping towards a set of coat hooks adjacent to the entrance door.
A black fedora was neatly presented on one of the hooks while beneath it on the floor were a few bundled coats and scarfs that looked comfortable in the jumble that surrounded them. Stepping around them, Nathaniel Noone removed the hat from its hook.
‘Well, I never!’ Belle exclaimed.
‘Devious old bugger but a genius never the less,’ Noone said and smiled.
Hanging from the hook and concealed by the hat was a rosewood-and-steel wood plane. The rounded handle and grip were suspending the tool downwards where its guiding site focused towards the pile of clothing on the floor.
Both Belle and Nathaniel scrambled at the clothing below, almost clashing heads in their eagerness to retrieve what was underneath. The disappointment was obvious on Belle’s face as she retrieved a wire waste paper bin from beneath. It was full of ripped up papers but there was nothing on them.
‘Oh for pity sake!’ she shouted in frustration, turning red.
Noone began to laugh. He was sniffing the wastebasket like a hound detecting a scent before the hunt. ‘Can you smell that, Belle?’ he asked.
‘What?’ she looked on confused.
‘Lemons,’ Noone said jubilantly.
‘Lemons?’ she asked, still confused.
‘It beats the effluence of the underground, I can tell you.’ Nathaniel laughed, removing the pieces of paper and holding them up to the single dimly lit bulb that now illuminated Monty’s study.
*****
An hour had passed quickly when the lock of Miss Dove’s office clicked open and she entered to find Aggie enthusiastically polishing the final few photo-frames.
‘My, my, you have been busy, Miss Chatsmore.’ Dove smiled on entry. ‘Perhaps this is a better example to set?’
Aggie smiled back. There must have been thirty frames laid out in front of her. The years of attic dust now a distant memory, all gleaming and set out in chronological order.
‘I don’t suppose you know when the crest changed do you, miss?’ Aggie asked, gesturing to where hers should be.
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know. I’m a relative newcomer to these parts compared to the likes of Sister Harvey. Sister Harvey would know. Or that lady in the village, Mrs Parker, I think. She was school secretary for many years.’
‘Nose … I mean … Nelly Parker?’ Aggie asked, correcting herself as she did so.
‘That’s her,’ Dove confirmed. ‘Why are you so interested?’
Aggie could not divulge she was looking for a picture of her mother when she’d attended the Priory. ‘I’m just interested to know who may have worn this jacket before me,’ Aggie replied.
Miss Dove cast her a curious look. ‘OK. Well, as I say, Sister Harvey or Mrs Parker might be able to help. You’re free to run along now.’
‘I’d like to revisit these photos once I know,’ Aggie said.
‘Of course. They’ll be in this room. Now, I must insist you leave for the day. A two-hour detention on your first day is some feat. I am sure Professor Belchambers will be wondering where you are. And, Miss Chatsmore, may I suggest your second day be far less extraordinary than your first.’
Aggie nodded and flitted out of the governess’s room. Grabbing her cloak on her way out as she passed the large Aspidistra, she entered the cold and dark evening. She was expecting the Peabodys to be waiting for her but they were not. The confines of the school had offered her comfort and protection. Now that she had stepped back on to the Steep all alone, her anxieties greeted her again. Lyle Braggan was dead. She had no reason to worry about him, but she couldn’t help but feel she was being followed, being watched.
Why weren’t the Peabody’s there to greet her? Aggie wondered. Gideon had reassured her they would act as her escorts and protectors. Something must have happened. She exhaled a cold breath and began the sharp incline towards home.
‘Aggie! Aggie,’ came a familiar female voice. ‘Are you walking home alone?’ she asked.
‘I guess so, Cecile,’ Aggie replied, turning to greet the restaurant owner and her effervescent smile.
‘Where are Elizabeth and Eric?’ Cecile questioned.
‘I’m not sure,’ Aggie replied, casting a perplexed glance her way. ‘How did you know they were supposed to meet me?’ she asked.
‘Gideon asked me to keep an eye out too. Shall I accompany you?’
‘Yes, please,’ Aggie confirmed.
‘Purrsia has gone missing again. He took a real shine to you. Perhaps we will find him on our way.’
Aggie’s anxieties surrounding her lone trip home were overtaken with a desire to find and protect the cat. Its furless body wouldn’t allow it to be exposed for long as the coldness of an Autumn night set in.
‘Here, kitty,’ they both called out, puckering and kissing the air as they passed the many alleyways on the way uphill.
Aggie was so lost in their search that they reached The Keep in no time at all. Nan was peering out from the raised ground floor window, anxiously surveying the cobblestone road in front of the building. On seeing Aggie, she rushed to the front door.
‘Where you been? I worried sick!’ Nan shouted.
‘She was helping me,’ Cecile defended.
‘Night, Cecile.’ Aggie waved as she climbed the stone steps. ‘Good luck finding Purrsia. If he turns up here, I’ll be sure to keep him safe.’
‘Thank you and goodnight, Agatha,’ Cecile responded before continuing her search for the bald moggy as she made her way back downhill.
‘Is Gideon back yet?’ Aggie asked.
‘Not yet. He still in London. Come, I make dinner,’ Nan replied bluntly.
Aggie closed the door behind them but not before one last look down the hill. A shadow disappeared into the darkness and her nerves peaked again but there was nothing to fear as two light wardens chatted with one another as they made their rounds. Sporting gas masks around their necks, enamel hats on heads, and waterproof sou’westers.
‘Be sure to pull those blinds shut, miss,’ one of them called out.
‘I will,’ Aggie acknowledged, closing the door quickly behind her and bolting it tight.
From a distance, the two men looked remarkably like the two men when this had all started, back at Florrie’s. But they were dead. The scarred stranger who had tried to take her had made sure of that. The vivid image of blood trickling from the gunshot, central to the luminous eye that covered their foreheads, came flooding back to remind her.
Florrie, I wonder how Florrie is? she asked herself. Uncle Gideon still had a lot of explaining to do. Once he returned from London.
*****
Gideon Belchambers could not make sense of the tiger-skin coat at all. The cigarette he found in the pocket linked it directly to Ilya’s strange violet torch, unquestionably, but it was too long and too feminine for the Russian and, therefore, the owner of this coat, whoever it was, was complicit in his plan. Sensing that Major Boyd Collingdale would not be able to navigate the Entomology department as swiftly as he had, after all, he did not have the torch beam and all-seeing eye to guide him through, Gideon took stock and began sifting through the contents of Ilya’s crushed satchel.
The dust had settled, indiscriminately covering all the documents inside. He emptied the entire contents in front of him and began to remove the dirt. Scrolls and papers tightly bound together, which he would have to view in a safer place. There were also three identically sized envelopes. The first was written in Cyrillic, which he could not read or was likely to understand. He placed it within an inside pocket. The second one was written in English and addressed to Montague Soames.
‘What the Devil?’ Gideon spoke to himself. Opening the letter, though it was not addressed to him he read it out aloud:
Dearest Montague,
If you are reading this, I am dead. If you are dead too
, I will see you for my judgement on the other side.
I am hoping you are alive and accept this as my apology for leading them to your door. If, as I suspect, they have found what they need then you will require the anti-venom I am in supply of and which accompanies this letter.
I bequeath all antiquities due to me from the tomb to your Museum, hoping one day you may make more sense of them than I.
Seeking your forgiveness in the afterlife,
Ilya Debrovska
‘Good God, Ilya. What have you done?’ Gideon questioned, searching through the bag for the anti-venom. At the bottom, beneath yet more papers and maps, he fumbled for a tiny bottle, still intact, with a flat cork stopper plugging the thick glass. He held it up to the light. Its liquid green transparency still allowed the fluid inside to be seen. The fluid ebbed from left to right as he rocked it slowly. On the front was a tiny black-and-white label showing a scorpion.
‘Monty?’ his thoughts turned to his old quartermaster and friend. ‘I must get to Monty as soon as I can.’
‘Professor Belchambers?’ came the Major’s repetitive calls.
No time to worry about Collingdale now. I’ll return and explain to him one day, he thought. He placed Monty’s envelope and the third envelope, which was not addressed to anyone, also within the inside pocket of his long coat. It would have to wait until later. Opening the exit, Gideon Belchambers alighted from the porter’s lodge. Looking up into the dark sky and sighing a chilled breath, he spied the stone cat standing guard above.
‘You’re supposed to be a symbol of prosperity and luck,’ he said to it. ‘It appears you didn’t waste any on the dead man inside so let’s hope you favour me instead.’ Taking the set of keys he had found in Ilya’s pockets, he began his search for his ride across town to the British Museum.
*****
Nan was an excellent cook. An excellent housemaid, now Aggie came to think of it. The home was always warm, spotlessly clean and welcoming. Despite the chaotic jumble Gideon would set out on almost a daily basis. Any guest of Gideon’s was always well looked after, spoilt in fact. Aggie was nothing less than royalty as far as he was concerned so Nan made extra effort to please her.