by Adam Roberts
‘Hurry up,’ hissed Sophie, again. ‘Have you shown him the diagram?’
‘Father,’ pressed Robert. ‘Do I get absolution for the idols thing? Only I’m in something of a hurry.’
‘Who are you?’ barked the priest, angrily. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? And who is that prompting you from outside the confessional?’ There was the sound of Father Hook getting up from his chair, and in a moment he had stepped out of the confessional. Robert assumed the confession was over.
He came out of the box back into the body of the church.
Father Hook was standing there, looking furiously at Sophie. ‘You!’ he cried. ‘I told you to stop bothering me! Do you want me to call the police?’
‘Father Hook,’ said Sophie, pleadingly. ‘You’ve got to listen to me . . . your life may be in danger . . .’
Hook turned to Robert. ‘Are you in league with this delusional female?’ he demanded.
The priest was an imposing figure; tall, broadbrowed, raven-haired. Although, now I come to think of it, ravens don’t have hair; they have feathers, everyone knows that. His wide face was dominated by a massy pyramidical nose, above which his two tiny, almost circular eyes clustered close together, as if competing with one another to alight at the apex, like the image of the Illuminatus’s monument on the reverse of the American currency. He had a large black mole on his cheek of exactly the same colour as his large black cassock.
‘You know her?’ asked Robert.
‘Indeed I do. An – excuse me mademoiselle, but I must speak the truth – an,’ suddenly his voice swooped up in volume, rather like the Reverend Ian Paisley. Although, obviously, a Catholic Ian Paisley. If that isn’t too impossible a notion to imagine – his voice swooped up in volume, ‘an unspeakable filthy grubber-abouter! A miserable journalist feeding on the misery of others! A hack, hoping for a sensational headline, and with no more compassion than a stoat!’
‘Father Hook,’ pleaded Sophie, ‘let me speak.’
‘A journalist?’ repeated Robert. ‘She told me she was with the Sûrité!’
‘A lie!’ boomed the priest. ‘She works for the Crotte du Diable – an execrable Parisian tabloid. She’s been pestering me for months about some cranky crack-pot conspiracy kerfuffle.’
‘I say,’ said Robert brightly. ‘That’s good! That – I mean . . .’ he went on, his smile flattening under the sour gaze of the priest ‘. . . that alliteration. I thought that was nice.’
‘Entirely inadvertent,’ he said. ‘I have no idea whom you may be, sir, but if you are associating with this disreputable individual . . .’
‘My name is Dr Robert Donglan,’ said Dr Robert Donglan. ‘I have just come from the scene of a terrible crime . . . Professor Jacques Sauna-Lurker, curator of the National Gallery . . . a friend of yours I believe?’
‘Indeed he is,’ declared Father Hook. ‘A good friend.’ His eyebrows dipped together minutely in suspicion. ‘Do you know Jacques?’
‘Alas no,’ said Robert. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead? No!’ Father Hook actually reeled back in utter astonishment. His tiny circular eyes became even more perfectly circular. His mouth sagged open.
‘I’m afraid so. Ms Nudivue and I have just come from the scene of the crime.’
‘Father Hook,’ said Sophie. ‘I know we have had an . . . unfortunate series of encounters hitherto. But please believe me. The job with Crotte – that was merely a cover story. I am not actually a journalist. I am indeed, as I told Dr Donglan, a member of an elite group within the Sûrité. We have been investigating a number of conspiracies. The name Eda Vinci came up.’
If it was possible for the priest to look more astonished than he had done at hearing the news of Sauna-Lurker’s death, he did so now. But in fact it was not possible for him to look more astonished, since his astonishment at the former news was so complete. So rather than doing the impossible thing of looking any more astonished, he continued looking astonished. ‘How did you come by that name?’ he demanded, in a low voice.
‘Does it convince you that I am no mere hackette working on a lowly French tabloid?’
‘It does,’ said the priest. ‘And poor Jacques dead? Incredible. Who is responsible for this crime?’
‘That is a matter,’ said Sophie, ‘on which we hope you will be able to assist us.’
‘You had better come into the Sacristy,’ said the priest, indicating a door at the side of the church.
7
The Exterminator stood outside the Church. The façade was dominated by a silver-plated sculpture of the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, holding before her the scales of justice. The Exterminator chuckled to himself. Within this building, he reminded himself, a nest of vermin huddled in their lair, thinking themselves safe. But (he clutched his leather attaché-case to his chest) he possessed the necessary implements to ensure that they would never see another dawn.
His masters commanded it. The Exterminator had no intention of disobeying the direct command of his masters. The vermin – qua vermin – had it coming.
With an evil grin on his evil face, he stepped through the entrance and into the body of the church.
8
‘I had to ask you to go into the confessional,’ Sophie was explaining to Robert, as they sat in the Sacristy of the Church of Our Lady of the Silver Scales. ‘I knew that Father Hook would recognise me, and reject what I had to say out of hand.’
‘Well,’ said the priest, reaching behind a pile of what Robert was sure he had described as vests to pull out a bottle of whisky, ‘you have been making a veritable nuisance of yourself, Mademoiselle.’ He unscrewed the bottle, poured whisky into the upended cap, and drank it down. This procedure he repeated six times in quick succession. ‘I apologise, but I do not have any glasses. It would be quite inappropriate for me to keep whisky glasses in a Sacristy. A Sacristy is for sacred items of paraphernalia.’ Seemingly refreshed, he recapped the bottle and stowed it away behind the pile of vests.
‘I apologise if I have been nuisansical,’ said Sophie. ‘But you understand the deepness of this conspiracy, and the global implications of it . . .’
‘Few understand that as well as I,’ returned the priest. ‘I have been researching the hidden secrets of this conspiracy for two decades. Jacques was my ally in this quest. For many years he and I have been getting closer and closer to the truth – Jacques even believed he had uncovered the true location of the Holy Grail.’
‘The Holy Grail!’ said Sophie. ‘You don’t say!’
‘I do.’
‘Did he tell you this location?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘How does the Holy Grail fit into this, exactly?’ asked Robert. ‘And who is this woman, this Eda Vinci you mentioned earlier?’
‘I explained to you earlier, Robert,’ said Sophie, ‘that this conspiracy was a deep one, with many aspects. The Holy Grail is part of it. If Jacques knew the location of the most sacred and Holy Grail, then perhaps he was murdered to keep him quiet?’
‘A lamentably effective strategy,’ said the priest. ‘For he can tell us nothing now that he is dead.’
‘But perhaps he can!’ Sophie said, eagerly. ‘He left certain clues at the scene of his murder. One of them, written in blood on the hairdo of Christ, is this . . . Robert, show the Father your drawing of Jacques’ message.’
Robert pulled out his notebook, flipped over the pages and held it up to Father Hook’s gaze: Baggels. Bagels.
Milk
Microwaveable Curry ()
Eggs
Bacon
Don’t forget Clubcard
‘Oh hang on a mo,’ said Robert, looking round at the page he was displaying. He flipped through a few more leaves, and then held up the sheet on which he had copied:9 Θ ?
The priest looked at this for a long while. ‘No,’ he said finally, scratching his mole. ‘That doesn’t mean anything at all to me.’
Sophie was crestfallen. Her crest fell at a rate o
f ten metres per second per second, which is the terminal velocity of any object dropped under the influence of Earth’s gravitational pull. ‘Are you sure? We believe that Jacques specifically indicated you as the one person who might be able to decipher this code.’
‘Really?’ said the priest. There was still a considerable residuum of suspicion in the way he regarded Sophie. ‘Well it really doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘I wonder,’ said Robert, looking again at the code. ‘I wonder if the last two symbols stand for “why-ay”.’
Sophie Nudivue looked at him. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It doesn’t really mean anything,’ said Robert. ‘It’s just an expression people from the North East of England add to the ends of their sentences. But perhaps it means that Sauna-Lurker was indicating a Geordie?’
‘What about the first two elements?’
‘Nine somethings . . . I don’t know.’
‘There’s only one person in London who could decipher this,’ declared Father Hook, getting to his feet. ‘Sir Herbert Teabag. One of Jacques’ closest friends, and an expert in this sort of thing.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘My association with him has not been entirely friction-free,’ said the priest sorrowfully. ‘But the tragedy of Jacques death will surely enable us to overcome our petty differences.’
9
The priest owned a sports car, a detail which Robert found rather surprising. ‘I often have to make house calls – administer the anointing of the sick, as extreme unction is now called, that sort of thing. This DB-7 is very handy for the London traffic.’
‘I’m not complaining,’ said Robert.
‘Right, well let’s all get in and . . . oh no!’
‘What?’
‘The keys!’ The priest was looking horrified. ‘I hang them on this little hook here - and now they’re gone! Somebody has stolen them . . .’
‘No!’ cried Robert.
‘It is almost,’ said Sophie, horrified, ‘as if some mysterious individual wishes to immobilise you, Father – to prevent you from leaving the church . . . to keep you here . . .’ She looked with alarmed anticipation at the main entrance to the church . . .
10
‘Ah, no,’ said the priest in a more level tone of voice. ‘Here they are, in my pocket all along. False alarm. Off we go . . .’
They all left the church and walked round the corner to where the nifty little car was parked. As soon as they had all got in, and pausing only to fasten his seatbelt, as is required by British law, Father Hook started the engine and drove off. ‘It won’t take us long,’ he announced to his two passengers, sitting behind him. ‘Teabag lives in Blackfriars; it’s just over the river.’
‘Who is this Teabag, exactly?’ Sophie enquired.
‘His full name is Herbert Alistair Teabag Bart.’
‘But surely “Bart” is a first name, though,’ observed Robert. ‘Perhaps it should go between the Herb and the Al?’
‘No,’ explained the priest. ‘ “Bart” is short for “Baronet”. It is a rank of English aristocracy, higher than a Knight but lower than a Baron. A Baron is a peer, entitled to sit in the House of Lords, for whom the proper mode of address is Lord so-and-so. Above a Baron in rank are, respectively, Viscount, Earl, Marquess and Duke, then a royal Duke, and finally Prince, Princess and King or Queen. A Baronet, such as Sir Herbert, is not entitled to sit in the Lords, and is addressed as “Sir” rather than “Lord”.’
‘And this Baronet is going to be able to help us, is he? How, exactly?’
‘He was one of Jacques Sauna-Lurker’s oldest and closest friends,’ explained Father Hook, changing from second to third gear and accelerating slightly as he drove over London Bridge. ‘They were in close correspondence about what they called the Eda Vinci mystery.’
‘That name again!’
‘Yes. Jacques and Teabag spoke on the phone often, and Jacques was a frequent visitor to Sir Teabag’s London home – here.’
The car had pulled up outside an impressive if bijoux townhouse in a quiet street not far north of the river. The three travellers clambered from the car, and made their way to the front door.
‘Well, let’s ring the bell.’
‘A word of warning before we do,’ said Father Hook. ‘I have had dealings with Sir Teabag before. He suffers from an unfortunate nervous condition.’
‘He’s nervous?’ asked Sophie.
‘He’s in good condition?’ asked Robert.
‘Perhaps both those things are true; but I meant instead that he suffers from what the psychiatric community calls somatic tourette’s syndrome. In regular tourette’s syndrome the sufferer is perfectly sane and rational, and yet cannot help shouting out obscenities. In Teabag’s case the condition is much worse. He is a highly intelligent and lucid man mentally speaking; and yet he cannot control his body – he cannot help lashing out at people.’
‘How unfortunate!’ exclaimed Sophie.
‘In a sense Teabag is lucky to be English. In some other countries sufferers from somatic tourette’s syndrome are locked up in asylums. But acting eccentrically, even assaulting people unbidden, is part of the English national character. Nevertheless we must be careful. If one of his fits comes upon him . . .’
‘I see,’ said Robert.
‘Furthermore, there has been something of a falling out between us,’ said the priest. For many months Teabag, Jacques and I were working together trying to solve the mystery of Eda Vinci. But then Teabag became paranoid, convinced that I was a mole, that I had been placed there by the mafia-mason-illuminati nexus to assassinate him. That I was a creature of pure evil masquerading as a priest, a foul agent of wickedness. ’
‘And were you?’ Robert queried. ‘I mean, are you?’
‘No,’ said the priest.
‘Right. And yet he suspected you?’
‘He did.’
‘Rather,’ Sophie put in, smugly, ‘as you suspected me, Father.’
There was a pregnant pause. Not, perhaps I should clarify, a pause that lasted nine months. That would be more than a pause, quite frankly. It would be more like a hiatus. Rather a pause that contained within it the possibility of something that would only later come to light. A pause that might make you sick in the mornings.
‘Your point is taken,’ said Hook, haughtily, looking down at her from behind his considerable organon nasum. ‘I apologise for my misconception. Except that I only thought you were an opportunistic journalist, not an agent of the foulest conspiracy ever to have blighted the history of Europe. Anyway, the point is that Teabag may act strangely, and perhaps violently, even though his heart is in the right place. If he falls prey to one of his violent fits then the thing to do – this is how Jacques used to handle it – the thing to do is to restrain him. I happen to have some handcuffs about my person,’ and he pulled the metal restraints from his cassock. ‘We may need to use these.’
Donglan looked at the cuffs. ‘You’re sure that’s the thing to do?’
‘It will depend upon Sir Teabag, I’m afraid. You must trust me; I have had a great deal of experience with him. But don’t worry; even if he has a fit and must be restrained, we’ll probably still be able to communicate with him civilly. Even if he loses control of his body, and tries to attack us, he will still keep control of his higher mental faculties. That is the nature of somatic tourette’s syndrome. In the past I’ve known him express genuine regret that he was trying to hit me with a poker even as he was trying to hit me with a poker.’
‘What a strange notion!’ said Robert.
‘Enough talk,’ said Sophie. ‘Time is of the essence.’
‘Essence-of-time,’ agreed Robert. ‘Yes. Let’s ring the bell.’
They walked up the stone steps to Sir Herbert A. Teabag’s black-painted front door. On the wood was hung a sign that read:Public Order Notice
Beware of the Old English Eccentric.
This notice is required by magistrate’s order.
Robert pushed the bell. It made a ding-dong-boing noise.
11
After a little while the door swung open to reveal Sir Herbert Teabag standing in his own hallway. Sir Teabag was a small man with a large head, rather in the fashion of those men and women in suits who impersonate Disney characters in Disneyland, although without their smiley natures, or desire to help visitors. His chinchilla-like body was clad entirely in tweed. His upper lip sported a walrus moustache; although unlike an actual walrus’s Sir Herbert’s moustache was composed of hair instead of thick tubular whiskers. He had a watery eye, a warty chin, a wary expression on his face, and a wry monocle wedged between his left cheek and left eyebrow.
‘Yes?’ he said, suspiciously, looking out at his three visitors. Then, recognising Father Hook, he added ‘Garoo!’ and tried to shut his visitors out.
But the priest had his foot in the door. Literally. And, now that I come to think of it, metaphorically too.
‘Sir Herbert!’ he bellowed, forcing his way in. Sir Herbert staggered backwards down the hall, and then took up a fighting stance near the bottom of his own stairs, which consisted of him standing with feet apart, arms forward, hands in ‘karate’ style. But there was something about this stance that made it only too obvious that Sir Teabag had no knowledge of karate at all.
‘Wait for a minute, there, Sir Herbert,’ called out Father Hook, holding his hands before himself placatingly. ‘Just hold your horses. We’ve come just to talk - just to talk. Nothing more.’
‘A likely story, Hook!’ returned Teabag. ‘Ya! Garoo!’
‘It is indeed a likely story,’ confirmed Hook, converting Teabag’s ironic means-opposite-of-apparent-meaning phrase into a straightforward utterance of truth. ‘This is Dr Robert Donglan from the University of London. And Sophie Nudivue, a researcher from the land of France. They are both researchers into . . . well, into you know what. And they are getting closer and closer to the truth. And I suggested to them that we come and speak to you. That’s why we’re here. We must talk . . . the events of earlier this evening. They possess a vital clue that only you might be able to decipher . . . a clue that could lead us to the true killers of Jacques.’