by Ian Cook
Reaching the gate, Neferatu turned left towards the small crowd that had gathered around the clown, the children standing and sitting in front of the row of rather unimpressed adults. The clown was now riding a unicycle as he juggled coloured balls. His bowler hat was on the ground and contained a small amount of money.
Neferatu stopped for an instant, brusquely pushed his way through the crowd, picked up the bowler hat, pocketed the contents in a single movement and threw the hat back on the ground. Before anybody could react, he shoved his way out of the crowd and strode off down Great Russell Street. The children responded first, shouting to alert the unsuspecting clown, who was focused on the trickiest part of his juggling act.
But it was too late. Neferatu had already hailed a taxi, instructing the driver to take him to King’s Cross Station.
CHAPTER 10
Neferatu stood looking up at the Eagle of St John, which surmounted New Court Gate to St John’s College, Cambridge.
He straightened his jacket, buttoned it and walked east towards the Bridge of Sighs. As he walked over it, he ignored the fine views of the River Cam, glistening beneath the setting sun. Crossing the Third Court, he passed under the Shrewsbury Tower and into the Second Court, where Dr James Cavendish, a Fellow of the College, had his rooms on the first floor.
Jim was expecting him and had set out a tray for tea and buttered crumpets. He welcomed his guest, who introduced himself as Dr Neferatu, into the sparsely furnished sitting room, where he had just finished tidying up numerous books and papers into neat piles in a corner. At the last minute, he had noticed on his desk the letter from the EU, rejecting his latest grant application, and had tucked it into a pile of papers.
He offered his guest the elderly Chesterfield armchair to sit in, having previously turned the cushion over to avoid displaying the tear in it. Dr Neferatu appeared grateful for the offer of tea and crumpets, and they exchanged pleasantries while Jim prepared them. Meanwhile, the visitor was peering with interest at the screensaver on Jim’s computer.
“Ah, Stonehenge,” he said. “I know it well.”
“You’ve been there?” asked Jim.
“Several times in fact. But this time, I’m here in Britain for a different reason.”
“So, how can I help you?” asked Jim.
Dr Neferatu took a sip of tea and stared without blinking at Jim. “I was rather hoping we could help each other,” he said, after a long pause. He took a bite of crumpet and chewed for a while. “Very nice. I always seem to burn mine.”
The springs in the chair creaked alarmingly as he leaned back. “First of all, I must give you some background.” Jim nodded, and Dr Neferatu settled back in the armchair, wincing at the spring digging into his backside. “My main business is dealing in antiques. I have been lucky in the trade and, shall we say, I am not a poor man.”
He took another sip of tea. “But I have other interests. My doctorate is from the University of Alexandria. The subject of the research for my thesis was hieroglyphics relating to the Egyptian sun gods and the temples dedicated to them. I am very interested in solar mythology: how it started, how it spread, the forms it has taken, the gods, the goddesses, where and how sun-worship is still practised today. Anything to do with the sun. I can give you more information later, but let’s say that it has taken me all over the world.”
Dr Neferatu shifted in the armchair. “Now we come to you.” Jim looked uneasy, shuffling a little on his chair. “You are an expert on the science of solar phenomena. I know very little about that. I have read some of your papers and, as far as I am qualified to judge, I can see you know your subject. And I know your reputation is first class.”
“Thanks,” said Jim.
“My problem is that I can’t do everything that I want to do by myself.” Dr Neferatu leaned forward towards Jim. “I am thinking of setting up a solar studies research unit. It would be a research team to study all activities relating to the sun: physical, astronomical, historical, astrological, mythological. I want it all pulled together in a cross-disciplinary way.”
He took another bite of crumpet and chewed for a while. “Obviously, Egypt would be the ideal place for me, but the science resource is not strong enough. Your department is well known, and you have links all over the world.” He finished his tea. “Are you interested?”
“Of course. But why do you want to set up a research unit? It’s a major investment. I mean, anything to do with the sun fascinates me. But it’s my job as well. I don’t get paid much, but I do get paid something. And I get somewhere to live.”
“With me, the study of the sun is an obsession. You must understand how one can get deeply intrigued by things. Well, now I have made enough money to indulge myself. It’s as simple as that.”
“Would you like me to introduce you to the university authorities?”
“I haven’t time for that. I would just get over-involved in university politics. Now, to start with, I would like a simple, historical survey of sun-worship in this country. It would cover solar observatories like Stonehenge and other important stone circles which may have been observatories. Also, some mention of the movements that are founded in sun-worship.
Then, I would also like a summary of the main scientific research interests around the world that relate to the sun. That’s all I need at present. Ten pages at most. That will enable me to develop a full proposal that I can put to you and the authorities.” He looked at Jim. “You are still interested in principle?”
“This is very unorthodox, you know,” said Jim.
Dr Neferatu shrugged his shoulders. “But what harm can it do? I’m not asking for anything contentious.”
“You are asking for quite a hefty piece of work,” Jim said.
Dr Neferatu winced again as the spring dug into him. “The problem is, I need it quickly.”
“But I’m going to Orkney tomorrow, and to Easter Island in a couple of days’ time,” protested Jim.
“Do it tonight then,” said Dr Neferatu. He fetched out a chequebook. “Would £10,000 for the university make it worthwhile?”
Jim knew that Dr Neferatu’s proposal was unorthodox, but he couldn’t see anything fundamentally wrong with it. Any grant would help his reputation within the university, and perhaps some of it would filter through to his department. It always annoyed him that so much of his time had to be spent looking for grants.
“It’s not exactly the way we usually do things,” he said.
“I am aware of how valuable your time is. As is mine, also.”
He wrote out a cheque and handed it to Jim. “By the way, I would like you to mention any places of sun-worship that are of particular interest to you, personally.”
Jim took the cheque and casually glanced at it, trying to look unfazed. It was drawn on the Bank of Cairo. “Do you want me to email or fax the report to you?”
“Neither. I’m afraid I am not very good with modern communications. I would prefer for you to leave it in the Porters’ Lodge by first thing tomorrow morning.
He got up and made for the door.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find my own way out. I want to look around while I’m here.”
Jim felt a strange tingle as he shook Dr Neferatu’s hand, but put it down to his own excitement. Even before Dr Neferatu had closed the door, Jim was already pulling out various books from his shelves.
Meanwhile, Dr Neferatu made his way to the Gate Tower, the main entrance to the college. As he emerged, he looked up and studied the statue of St John the Evangelist which stood above the gateway. The saint held a chalice, from which a serpent emerged. At his feet nestled a carved eagle.
CHAPTER 11
The lift pinged and opened at the twelfth floor of the Canary Wharf Tower. Rebecca walked towards the newsroom, wondering how much news of her trip had reached the paper ahead of her.
Veronica, the receptionist, didn’t seem to have picked up much. “Hi, Becky. Had a nice holiday?” she said.
Rebecca made str
aight for Syreeta. Walter King, the drama critic, looked up as she passed.
“Sounds like you’ve been having fun,” he said. Otherwise, it was almost as if she had never been away.
As soon as Syreeta saw her, she jumped up and hugged her. “Oh, Becky, I’ve been worried sick. Charles said you’ve had a few adventures, like nearly being set on fire in Tunis. He said you’d got caught up in a student demo or something. Is that right? Are you okay? It sounds terrible.”
“It was pretty nasty,” said Rebecca, and found herself blurting out the details of the fire-bombing. She was telling Syreeta about the theft of her handbag and the threatening young boys when Geoff Evans looked up from his laptop.
The short, dark Welshman from the valleys was the archetypal tea boy made good. Having progressed steadily through the ranks, he was immensely proud of his position on a national daily. But he still missed the buzz and intimacy of Fleet Street and couldn’t accept that the ‘Golden Age’ of newspapers had moved on. He particularly resented this influx of confident young women journalists, who didn’t know shorthand and were painfully ignorant of traditional newspaper practice and law.
“I told you that you should have gone to Benidorm,” he said, expressionless.
Syreeta swung round to face him. “Yes, yes, we all know you never go anywhere but Bournemouth,” she scowled.
Even for Rebecca, the events of the past few days were quickly becoming too unreal, like a bad dream.
“To tell the truth, it’s all been a bit bizarre,” she said. “But the odd thing is that I’m still feeling quite nervous. I know it sounds pathetic – even here, though, I still feel nervous.”
Syreeta didn’t hesitate. “Listen, come and have dinner tonight at my place. You can tell me all about it. Why not stay the night?”
“Really? I’m all right. Just shaken up a bit, that’s all.”
“Collect your stuff and come straight over,” Syreeta said. “Look, we’ll talk later. Charles is coming over.”
Charles looked very concerned. “Welcome back, Rebecca. Have you got a minute?”
She followed him back to his office and sat down as he closed the door.
“What happened to you? I’ve had Ali on the phone saying you were fire-bombed in Tunis. What on earth has been going on?”
Rebecca smiled and shrugged. “It all got a bit dramatic and unreal,” she said, and started to tell him what had happened.
“Well,” he said, “it was a good piece you filed from Tunisia. I’m sure we’ll be able to use it.” He picked up a pile of computer printouts, went through them, selected six and passed them to Rebecca. “Look at these. Odd reports about ritual murders. All over the place.”
“Has it got anything to do with my story?”
“Have a look. Not much detail, except that all the reports say the murders happened in ruined temples that were linked to sun-worship. But the point is, some of the victims had red hair. It’s a bit odd.”
Rebecca glanced at the print-outs. “Where’s this been going on?”
“The Middle East – Syria and Lebanon. Couple in the South Pacific. And another one yesterday, in Egypt.”
“Do you think it’s worth following up?”
“Could be interesting.”
“If there’s a sun-worship link, I know somebody who might be able to give me some information. Somebody at Cambridge University. What do you think?”
Charles nodded. “Good idea. See what you can get hold of. There might be something in this. And if there is, we’ll almost certainly run with it.”
Rebecca went back to Syreeta’s desk and told her about the conversation.
“What are you going to do?” asked Syreeta.
“I’m going to call up Jim Cavendish. He should be back by now.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Syreeta said. “It’s incredible what happened to you, you know. I want to hear all about it tonight.”
As Rebecca sat down at an adjacent empty desk, Syreeta gazed at her laptop, as if trying to collect her thoughts. She stifled a yawn, started to type and then stopped. Pushing the laptop away, she gazed around the newsroom.
A man smiled at her. He was leaning back in his seat, with his hands behind his head, in one of the glass cubicles. Edward Hargreaves was the features editor, known to all as ‘Eddie’. Aged thirty-five, he looked older, his face already florid from too much lunchtime drinking in the Docklands bars. His smile was friendly, with only the faintest hint of a leer. Syreeta smiled back and gave a little wave.
Rebecca, however, had already unintentionally intercepted Eddie’s gaze. Suspecting at once what was going on, she turned to Syreeta.
“What’s all that about then? He’s not your sort, is he?” she said.
“He’s all right – when you get to know him,” replied Syreeta. She looked coy, and Rebecca couldn’t resist probing further. “You’re being very secretive. Isn’t he married?”
Syreeta grinned. “He’s fun. And he’s got good contacts.” With a smile, she went off in the direction of Eddie Hargreaves’ office.
“No accounting for taste,” said Evans in a stage whisper.
Rebecca ignored him and typed into the keyboard of a computer. A minute later, she located Jim – Dr James Cavendish – on the University of Cambridge website. She discovered that, not only was he a Fellow of St John’s College, but that he was also a Senior Research Fellow in the Astrophysics Group at, to her surprise, the Cavendish Laboratory.
She quickly established that it was named after Henry Cavendish, the grandson of the 2nd Duke of Devonshire, and that Cavendish was in fact the family name of the Dukes of Devonshire, whose seat was at Chatsworth in Derbyshire.
Intrigued, she clicked on to Burke’s Peerage and Gentry website, but could find no reference to a Jim or James Cavendish who fitted the bill. It was the same with Who’s Who.
Slightly puzzled, Rebecca thought for a minute, made a decision and picked up the phone. She groaned to herself on hearing the voicemail and left a brief message. Then, taking her coat, she headed for the exit.
CHAPTER 12
Rebecca rang the bell of the ground floor flat in West Kensington. Syreeta opened the door, smiling and standing behind a large ginger cat, which immediately wrapped itself around Rebecca’s leg.
“And how’s Tom?” said Rebecca, bending down to pick it up.
“Fat and lazy. He should go out more. Come in,” Syreeta said, and headed for the kitchen. “I’m trying to cook. Bit of a joke, really.”
Syreeta’s flat reflected her character. She had obviously just tidied up the place. There were photographs of friends everywhere: framed, arranged into collages and even stuck on the fridge. On the wall there were bright, colourful holiday posters and some paintings, mostly picked up on holidays abroad.
Rebecca, recognising one of the paintings, couldn’t resist a closer inspection. She had painted it herself, a postcard-sized water colour she’d done on a weekend break in Dorset. She’d sent it to Syreeta, who had framed it and given it the place of honour on the mantelpiece. Rebecca put it down again, wondering if she could ever have made it as an artist. She quickly dismissed the thought. Not good enough. Her mother had had more talent, and even she had struggled to make it pay by painting the occasional commissioned portrait.
In one corner of Syreeta’s living room there was a bar full of bottles of liqueurs of every shape and colour from different parts of the world, and in the kitchen the wine rack was fully stocked.
“I think we should have some nice wine to welcome you back,” she said. “Eddie brought a few bottles of Chablis around last week. I don’t think we drank them all.” She checked the wine rack, pulled out a bottle and handed it to Rebecca. “Will you open it? What sort of music do you want?”
“Do you have any new jazz?”
“Not really. How about African?”
“Sounds good.”
The sound of South African township music floated through the flat.
“Are you still
playing the sax?” asked Syreeta.
“No – no time. Get to a jazz club occasionally, but that’s it. I try to practise, but I don’t think it goes down too well with the neighbours.”
“Sod them. You’ve got a life to lead as well,” said Syreeta. “Lucky for them it’s jazz sax and not the drums. If I had a talent like yours, I’d really flaunt it.” She poured the wine and handed a glass to Rebecca. “Welcome back, safe and sound.”
Syreeta drained the glass in one and picked up the bottle again. “Drop more?”
Rebecca had taken just one sip. “No thanks. It’s lovely, though.”
“God, call yourself a journo,” Syreeta laughed. “You’ll have to knock it back a bit faster if you’re going to keep up with the Metropolitan boozers.”
“All right for them,” said Rebecca. “But one glass is enough for me. Any more and I go to pieces.”
Syreeta fetched out a wok from a cupboard. “Chinese stir-fry okay with you?”
“Love it.”
Tom the cat followed them around and generally got in the way while they prepared the meal together.
As she described the events of the past couple of days over dinner to an incredulous Syreeta, Rebecca finally began to relax.
“Have you contacted this guy Jim Cavendish yet?” asked Syreeta.
“I couldn’t get through. Charles thinks there might be a story there. I know there is.”
“Sounds to me like you’re more interested in Jim Cavendish.”
“Not my type. He’s just a scientist, for God’s sake. Quite boring really.”
“Uhmm, I’ve heard that one before,” said Syreeta.
She made a herbal tea for Rebecca, a coffee for herself, and they continued chatting; Syreeta updating Rebecca on the newspaper gossip she had missed, until they both started to yawn.