by Adam Roberts
‘Rapport,’ corrected Sophie, icily.
‘Yes. That. Or – what did I say?’
‘You spoke the name of your country’s most famous dwarf actor.’
‘Did I? Did I really? Well that’s very interesting. But not really relevant. Because what I want to say to you isn’t dwarfish in any sense. Not that’s there’s anything wrong with being a dwarf. Indeed, I understand that it’s not especially polite to refer to dwarves as dwarves any more. We’re supposed to say persons of restricted height. Although that’s by-the-by. The point is,’ Robert continued, growing more and more nervous the longer he went on, ‘is that I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, that on the basis of our rappaport . . . well, I want to ask you, how would you like to go out with me? We could start by planning a meal together, in a nice restaurant somewhere, and take it from there? What do you say?’
Sophie stared levelly at him. ‘Dash-dot, dash-dash-dash, ’ she said.
13
The Baronet’s physical seizure seemed to have abated a little. He had slid the chain down the banister pole and was now sitting on the foot of the stairs looking glum. Robert assumed his expression reflected his grief at the death of his friend.
‘Sir Herbert?’ Robert enquired. ‘Do you know why Sauna-Lurker left you that particular message?’
‘He was my friend,’ Teabag replied, in a miserable voice.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Robert impatiently. ‘But we really haven’t time for that now. We must decipher the clues! Why would he cough COD at you?’
‘Will you please release me?’ Teabag pleaded, tears in his eyes. ‘In my own home! To barge in here, assault me, chain me to my own banisters . . .’
‘But look what you did to Father Hook!’ Sophie pointed out. ‘He’s out cold.’
‘He was coming to murder me,’ said Teabag. ‘Just as he murdered Jacques.’
Robert made to express his disbelief by saying ‘pshaw!’ It was the kind of thing he often read in books, and liked the look of it, and he had in fact been waiting for a good opportunity to try it out in real life. This was the perfect occasion. ‘pshaw!’ he said, shaking his head. Unfortunately, on account of his lack of practice with the expression, his ‘pshaw!’ came out as ‘P. Shaw’, and that sounded like a name.
Both Teabag and Sophie looked at him.
‘But what I don’t understand,’ said Sophie, turning back to the Baronet, ‘is why you’re so convinced Father Hook wanted to murder you?’
‘Who’s this P. Shaw?’ Teabag inquired.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Robert. ‘That came out wrong, actually. I didn’t mean to say that.’
‘Never mind that now,’ Sophie pressed. ‘Tell me why you’re so convinced Father Hook wanted to marry you?’
‘Marry me?’
‘Not marry - murder.’
‘But,’ Teabag pointed out, ‘you said marry.’
‘Did I?’ said Sophie. ‘Really? That must have been a Freudian slip. I meant murder.’
‘Ah,’ said Robert. ‘A Freudian slip, really? One of those occasions, identified by the great Austrian psychotherapist Sigmund Freud, who as we all know was born in 1856 in Vienna and died in 1939 in London, when the subconscious mind subtly changes what we intended to say, replacing the word with one that carries some significant emotional cathexis from our Id?’
‘Yes,’ said Teabag, ‘one of those.’
‘That’s a very interesting, slip, I think,’ Robert opined. ‘To switch “murder” and “marry” like that. Very significant, I’d say.’
Sophie stamped her foot. ‘Enough! We don’t have time for these games! Tell me, Sir Herbert, why are you so convinced Father Hook wanted to murder you?’
Teabag looked sulkily at the floor, and dragged his handcuff chain up and down the banister pole. ‘The Catholic Church,’ he muttered. ‘They will stop at nothing to silence our research. We are on the verge of uncovering the greatest mystery of the last two thousand years – one that will rock the Catholic Church to its very foundations. Naturally they aim to stop us . . . by any means necessary.’
‘But . . . murder?’ whispered Robert, horrified. ‘Murder is, like, really really nasty. It might even be a sin. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that it is indeed a sin.’
‘You think they care about that when their very existence is under threat?’
‘But why cod?’ Sophie demanded. ‘I don’t see how that fits into the picture.’
‘Jacques and I had been discussing a . . . certain picture,’ said Teabag. ‘He claimed, after a great deal of research and hard bargaining, to have obtained this picture, and to have secreted it about his gallery.’
‘The Mona Eda . . .’ gasped Sophie.
That made Teabag look up. ‘What do you know about that? How can you possibly know about that?’
‘Because I’ve been on the same trail, Sir Herbert!’ Sophie gushed. ‘The Mona Eda has been my life’s work!’
‘I thought that only Jacques and I knew . . .’ Herbert rasped. He seemed overcome with emotion.
‘So the picture is in the National Gallery?’ said Sophie, tremendously excited. ‘It’s there – right now?’
‘I wasn’t sure,’ said Teabag. ‘Jacques was supposed to telephone me tonight, to let me know whether he’d been able to smuggle it into his gallery. Instead of which he was murdered.’ Teabag slumped again.
‘But not before he conveyed to you his final message, ’ Sophie reminded him. ‘Cod. Why did he cough cod at you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Teabag miserably. ‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘I suppose,’ Robert put in, trying to be helpful, ‘that he didn’t have time to cough out The Picture Has Successfully Been Smuggled Into The Gallery. I mean,’ he added, fishing out his chest-card, ‘that would have been like—’ and he started coughing:Co-u-gh! . . . Cof-cof-cof-cof! . . . Cof! . . . Cof! co-u-gh! co-u-gh! cof! . . . Cof-cof! . . . Co-u-gh! cof! co-u-gh! cof! . . .
Sophie ignored him. ‘It must mean something,’ she said to Teabag. ‘You were expecting a phone call from Jacques confirming or denying whether he had been able to obtain . . .’ she couldn’t stop herself from shaking her head in frank disbelief and amazement, ‘. . . actually getting his hands on the original Mona Eda?’
‘I was,’ said Sir Teabag, hanging his head in misery.
‘Well, if we assume that he couldn’t say those words directly because the assassin was in the room with him, and we assume that he knew the assassin would snatch the phone from his hand, so that he wouldn’t have much time . . .’
In the background, Robert was still coughing: ‘. . . Cof-cof! . . . Co-u-gh! cof! . . . Co-u-gh! . . . Cof-cof-cof-cof! . . . Cof! . . .’
‘Then,’ Sophie concluded, ‘that one word he did communicate must mean something. Think! He intended it for your ears . . . cod. Cod, Sir Teabag! Think! Cod! Cod! Think! Cod! Think!’
‘But it conveys nothing to me!’ exclaimed the Baronet in an agonised tone of voice. ‘Apart from . . .’
‘Apart from . . .’
‘. . . Cof! . . . Cof! co-u-gh! cof! . . . Co-u-gh! cof! co-u-gh! co-u-gh!’ concluded Robert, and put away his cheat sheet. ‘Which,’ he added, in a raspy voice, ‘would obviously have taken too long.’ He made a noise like a cat with furballs. ‘Arrhh!’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘I seem to have scraped my throat rather doing that.’
‘COD,’ barked Sophie.
‘The only thing it can mean,’ said Sir Herbert ‘. . . but if you know about the Mona Eda, then you must know about that as well.’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Yes, the C.O.D. itself . . . the Conspiratus Opi Dei.’
‘No!’ gasped Sophie.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Sir Herbert.
‘You what?’ queried Robert.
‘It’s more a legend than a fact . . .’ Sophie explained. ‘The conspira
cy behind all conspiracies. Conspiratus Opi Dei. The Conspiracy of the Work of God. The Catholic Church is merely one of several front organisations for this shadowy, ancient, gathering. You see, conspiracy, in the original Latin, meant first of all a breathing together, a coming together of souls. Only later did it acquire its negative connotations of a secret cabal plotting for malign purposes.’
‘The entire Catholic Church is merely a front organisation for this particular conspiracy?’ boggled Robert. ‘That’s quite an allegation.’
‘Not just the Catholic Church,’ said Teabag in a low voice. ‘All the conspiracies of the world are masks deliberately worn by the C.O.D. to hide their very existence. Whilst people are busy chasing after the Illuminati, or the Masons, or the Mafia, they are distracted from the real secret power of this world.’
‘The Mafia?’ said Robert. ‘Are they part of it too?’
‘A deeply spiritual organisation, an ancient branch of the Catholic Church,’ confirmed Sophie. ‘It used to be well known, although now the Mafia has done a very good job of covering up its origins.’
‘The Mafia?’ repeated Robert, incredulously. ‘Are you sure? I’ve never heard that they were a spiritual branch of any church . . . aren’t they more like, you know, Italians in expensive suits shooting people and doing this gesture’ - he put all the fingers’-ends of his right hand together, facing up, and waggled the hand back and forth – ‘a lot? That’s the Mafia, right? Organised crime?’
‘But you see that’s exactly what I’m talking about, that kind of preconception,’ said Sophie. ‘You’ve no actual experience of the Mafia. All you know comes through The Godfather and The Sopranos. But those representations are designed deliberately to mislead you. The reality is very different. Do you know where the name mafia comes from? Do you know what it means?’
‘I heard it was an acronym for Mothers And Fathers of Italian American origin,’ said Robert.
Sir Teabag made a scoffing noise. ‘That would be Mafoiao’ he pointed out. ‘Which is quite hard to say.’
‘Mafia,’ said Sophie, ‘means my faith - ma-fia. It’s a spiritual designation, associated from its earliest days with the Papacy and the Catholic Church. But that’s only to say that it is a manifestation of a deeper secret organisation. They have tentacles everywhere – in Hollywood, where the Godfather films were made. In N.A.S.A., where the moon landings were faked. Here in Britain, where the Royal Family are run as a complex scam.’
‘You mean the Royal Family really are lizards?’
‘Lizards? No. Not lizards. But they are part of a more ancient bloodline than any English aristocracy . . . and the lizard theory is not a million miles away from the truth.’
‘This is incredible!’
‘It’s so obvious!’ exclaimed Sophie excitedly. ‘Of course . . . this explains everything! The C.O.D. are behind the murder of Jacques Sauna-Lurker.’
‘I fear you are correct,’ said Sir Herbert. ‘Jacques had somehow obtained the original Mona Eda. The Conspiratus found out about it, and murdered him before he could reveal it to the world.’
‘They would certainly have the power to infiltrate the National Gallery.’
‘What about framing me?’ put in Robert. ‘Would they have the power to do that?’
‘They would indeed,’ said Sophie. ‘They control most of the big Computing Companies, as well as most of the Companies engaged in research on genetic engineering. It would have been a relatively simple matter for them to have obtained your fingerprint, Robert – then genetically modify a codfish so that each of its scales reproduced your fingerprint in its dermal papilla, such that it came into relief in the scale enamel in the fully developed fish. Then they could take the fully grown fish and use it as a murder weapon . . . thereby implicating you in the murder.’
‘But why me?’
‘Perhaps they wanted to kill two birds with one stone. Perhaps you had been getting too close to them in your researches?’
‘Yeah,’ said Robert. ‘Right.’
‘It hardly matters whom they frame,’ said Teabag. ‘The only important thing for them is that they deflected attention away from themselves. If the murder were investigated too deeply then perhaps a ray of light might be cast into the gloom in which they hide . . . much better to give the police apparently watertight evidence that Dr Robert Donglan was the killer.’
‘Watertight!’ said Robert, grinning. ‘I like that!’ His two companions looked blankly at him. ‘You know – fish scales. Watertight. Oh,’ he added, in a lower voice. ‘I thought you were making a joke.’
‘Hardly,’ said Sir Teabag. ‘My best friend has been murdered. This really isn’t a time to crack jokes.’
‘Oh,’ said Robert. ‘No, I see. Quite.’
‘Jacques Sauna-Lurker is dead,’ Sophie said. ‘But perhaps the Mona Eda is still in the Gallery. It may not be too late.’
‘The assassin – whomsoever he is – will surely have removed the incriminating picture from the gallery,’ said Teabag, shaking his head.
‘Perhaps – but perhaps not! What if Jacques had hidden the picture? Hidden it so well that the assassin couldn’t find it?’
‘But if he couldn’t find it, then what makes you think we will be able to?’ asked Sir Herbert.
‘We have what the assassin didn’t have,’ said Sophie triumphantly. ‘We have Jacques’ last word. We have COD!’
‘You think it is more than merely Jacques’ way of identifying his killer?’ asked Teabag. ‘You think it might be a clue as to the hiding place of the Mona Eda within the National Gallery?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mona Eda?’ asked Robert, with an expression on his face rather like a lost dog contemplating a sign-post. ‘You keep going on about it. What is it, exactly?’
‘There’s no time to explain it to you now, Robert,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the Gallery.’
‘We’re going to the Gallery?’
‘With all speed. We have to see whether the picture is there or not.’
‘But it’s two in the morning!’
‘We’ll have to find a way in – break in, if necessary. ’
‘Wait!’ cried Sir Teabag. ‘What about me? You can’t leave me here.’
Sophie looked long and hard at the Baronet. ‘If we uncuff you, you have to promise not to attack us.’
‘I promise.’
‘Can we take the risk?’ worried Robert. ‘I mean – look what he did to Father Hook.’ Everybody looked down at the supine figure of the priest. His breathing was audible. Indeed it sounded rather like snoring.
‘But I thought you were assaulting me,’ said Teabag, mildly. ‘I was only defending myself.’
‘Ah,’ said Robert, pointing out the flaw in the Baronet’s logic, ‘but we weren’t attacking you. Do you see? Do you see where you went wrong?’
‘Well I see that now. But I had just learned that my best friend had been murdered - because he had gotten close to the secret of the C.O.D. And I too have also gotten close to that secret. And I knew that they knew, that the C.O.D. knew, and moreover that they knew that I knew. Which they also knew. I was expecting an assassination attempt. You can understand why I was jumpy.’
‘OK,’ said Robert, a little dubiously.
‘Besides,’ Teabag went on, ‘I’m still not entirely sure about Hook. How well do either of you know him? How do you know you can trust him? He is a priest after all.’
‘Not all the members of the Catholic Church are members of the Conspiratus,’ Sophie pointed out. ‘In fact, only a small elite are even aware of the existence of the C.O.D. I’m sure Hook is innocent.’
‘It’s immaterial now,’ said Teabag. ‘He’s out cold.’
‘I’d better phone for that ambulance,’ said Robert.
14
After they had called for an ambulance, and uncuffed Sir Teabag, they all got into Father Hook’s sports car to hurry back to the National Gallery, having previously prised the c
ar keys from the unconscious priest’s trouser pocket. They then dragged his body out onto the front step, so that the medics could reach him; after which Sir Teabag locked his house. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said. ‘Burglars and all.’ He looked down at the unconscious body of his friend. ‘I do hope poor old Hooky’s head isn’t too sore when he wakes up,’ he said.
Teabag drove, whilst Sophie and Robert sat in the back seat together. ‘So,’ said Robert, using the occasion to squeeze a little closer to the attractive French woman sitting beside him. ‘You were saying something about a Mona Eda?’
‘It’s been a chimera for researchers into conspiracy, ’ said Sophie.
‘Well, right,’ said Robert. ‘That doesn’t tell me very much, partly because I don’t know what a chimera is.’
‘The word chimera derives from the Greek χιµαιρα,’ Sophie explained, ‘which originally referred to a fabulous monster from ancient Lycia that vomited fire and was made up of the front part of a lion, the middle part of a goat and the hinder parts of a dragon. But since this creature patently never existed, “chimera” in common English usage came to mean any imaginary monster comprised of incongruous parts, and then later to mean any illusion, fabrication or especially any unrealisable or unrealised dream or quest-object. It was in this latter sense that I was using the term.’
‘I see,’ said Robert, shortly.
‘Various specialists have postulated the existence of the Mona Eda. But now it seems as if we have the first concrete lead.’
‘Concrete?’ queried Robert, ‘Lead? That’s a pretty weighty combination.’
‘Not “led”,’ corrected Sophie, annoyed that her slight French accent had misled her interlocutor, ‘ “Leed” ’.
‘Ah. So what is it, exactly, this Mona Eda? Some sort of picture, you were implying?’
‘Have you heard,’ said Sophie by way of replying, looking out of the window of the speeding car, ‘of Leonardo?’