The Parliament of Blood

by Justin Richards

  ‘Well done,’ Sir William said, as George moved round to prise open the other side.

  Before long, the lid was propped against the side of another crate, and George and Sir William were staring into the open box. It was filled with straw, but there was obviously something inside the straw. George could see the glint of metal – of gold?

  ‘I had several chaps from Egyptology help lift the sarcophagus from its crate,’ Sir William said. ‘Not ideal as they were more than a little intrigued to know what we get up to down here. But in this case, I think we need to remove one of the sides. Since there are just the two of us, you agree?’

  George nodded.

  ‘I don’t,’ another voice announced before George could say anything. ‘There’s three of us.’

  George almost dropped the heavy crowbar as he turned sharply to see who had spoken. He sighed with relief as he saw who it was. He should have guessed.

  ‘So, what’s going on here?’ Eddie asked. He had his hands jammed deep in his trouser pockets and was leaning against the empty mummy crate. He had a piece of straw sticking out of his mouth while he chewed on the end, like a music-hall farmer about to burst into comic song.

  Sir William was still sifting through the straw inside the square crate. ‘Nonetheless,’ he said, apparently unsurprised at Eddie’s arrival, ‘I feel removing one of the sides would be the best course of action.’

  As the side of the crate fell away, straw spilled out across the floor. Sir William reached in and pulled it away until they could see what was beneath.

  ‘It’s another box,’ Eddie said, disappointed. ‘I’ve never seen so many boxes as you’ve got stashed down here.’

  George was rather more impressed. The box was made of a pale ceramic-like material that had an almost translucent quality. The glint of metal that George had seen was part of the mass of hieroglyphs that covered much of the sides and top of the box, in brilliant gold and deep blue. Tiny pictures and symbols that meant little to George – figures and birds and shapes …

  ‘Old, is it?’ Eddie wondered.

  ‘Very,’ Sir William assured him. ‘Now, let’s see if we can get the top off, shall we?’

  The lid was heavy and felt like fragile stone. Sir William described it as ‘calcite’ but it wasn’t a material that George was familiar with. The closest he had seen before was alabaster.

  They laid the lid carefully on the ground and looked inside the box. It was divided up into five – a square area of two pairs, and at the end a single double-sized compartment. This larger space was empty, but in each of the others was what looked like a statue.

  ‘A canopic chest,’ Sir William announced, as if this was entirely to be expected. He lifted out one of the statues.

  It was about two feet tall, cylindrical but widening to a top that was carved in the vague shape of a head. There were more hieroglyphs down the front, with the top painted into the face of an ape.

  George and Eddie lifted out the other statues and set them down in a row on a nearby shelf of a bookcase. They were similar, but the head of each figure was different.

  ‘Are they just decorative?’ George wondered.

  ‘They are canopic jars,’ Sir William explained. ‘As was the tradition, they are in the shapes of the sons of Horus. I forget their names, but as you can see, we have an ape, a falcon, a jackal and a human figure.’

  ‘Jars?’ Eddie said. ‘You mean they open and there’s stuff inside?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Sir William warned as Eddie reached for the dog-like jackal-head of the nearest canopic jar.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I was right. These jars and this chest do indeed belong with the mummy of Orabis. In fact, you could say they are part of the mummy. Part of the ancient process of mummification involved the removal of bodily organs. They were placed in these jars.’

  Eddie’s hand came away from the jar. ‘That’s just … disgusting,’ he said, screwing his face up. ‘What bodily organs?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Liver, lungs, stomach and intestines, I think.’

  Eddie nodded, looking no happier. ‘That’s really disgusting.’

  Sir William was looking into the casket again. He reached down into the larger compartment, feeling round. ‘Seems to be empty,’ he announced.

  ‘What should be inside it?’ George asked.

  ‘Well, nothing. We have the four canopic jars. So far, so ordinary and entirely as expected. But why have a compartment if there’s nothing to go in it?’

  ‘Something’s been taken out?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Or perhaps the casket was a little too big, so there was space left after they divided it up for the jars,’ George said.

  Sir William drummed his fingers on the narrow dividing wall. ‘Possibly. Perhaps the inscription explains it.’ He crouched down in front of the casket, inspecting the hieroglyphs.

  ‘So, what do all these symbols mean?’ George wanted to know.

  ‘Mmm?’ Sir William straightened up, rubbing his chin as he considered. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps someone in Egyptology will be able to enlighten us. We should make a copy.’

  Eddie whistled. ‘Take a while for George to copy that lot in his sketchbook.

  ‘Which is why,’ Sir William said, ‘we shall have photographs taken. If that photographer ever turns up.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Eddie said. ‘I knew there was something I had to tell you. There’s a man up in your office. I said I’d let you know. Anyway, he said something about photographs.’

  ‘Anything else?’ George asked, sarcastically.

  Eddie nodded. ‘Murder.’ He grinned. ‘Photographs, and murder.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Liz was unable to get away from home until she was sure her father was settled and asleep. He was frail and weak, and retired early so she was hopeful that the rehearsal would not yet have finished.

  Leaving a note for her father explaining that she had gone out and not to worry as she would be back soon, Liz made her way to the Parthenon Theatre. Her heart was pounding and she felt more nervous than she could remember. She tried to convince herself that it was better to arrive late than to be at the theatre on the stroke of six and watch the whole rehearsal. Of course, she wanted to see how the actors worked, how Henry Malvern organised and ran the session. But she did not wish to intrude.

  The theatre was large and imposing, built in the early 1850s. It dominated the small street in the West End of London where it was situated. It was not a theatre that Liz had been to, but she could imagine the audience spilling on to the narrow pavement at the end of a performance – talking about the play they had just seen, the experience they had shared …

  There was no sign of life from inside, though posters proclaimed: ‘Coming Soon – The Lady of the Camellias’, giving top billing to Henry Malvern and Marie Cuttler. Even more prominent posters announced: ‘Traditional Music Hall – Late House. This Week Only’.

  The door was heavy but opened easily to allow Liz into the dimly lit foyer. She stood on the dark red carpet and looked round. It was all far more ornate and splendid than the small Chistleton Theatre where she helped with productions whenever she could.

  A uniformed attendant was standing beside the ticket booth at the side of the foyer. ‘Late house isn’t till ten,’ he said gruffly, handlebar moustache twitching as he spoke. ‘Doors open nine-thirty.’ He sniffed and checked his pocket watch. ‘That isn’t for over two hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Liz said nervously. ‘But I’m not here for the late house.’

  ‘Advance sales from eleven till five,’ the man responded, still examining his watch.

  ‘Mr Malvern invited me – to watch the rehearsal.’

  The watch disappeared, and the moustache moved slightly to reveal a toothy smile. ‘Then you must be Miss Oldfield. This way, please.’

  He led her through to the auditorium and then left Liz to fend for herself. She was at the back of the eno
rmous theatre and the stage seemed miles away. She was impressed at how clearly she could hear Malvern and the other actors as they went through a scene of the play. Liz settled herself into a seat at the end of the centre block about halfway to the stage.

  The scene was played out between just two people. The other actors stood in front of the stage or sat in the front row as they watched, and occasionally Malvern asked them what they thought about the clarity of diction or the blocking of the action on the stage. Despite the constant stopping and restarting as they refined their performance, Liz was soon caught up in it all.

  It was a moment in the play where Marguerite Gautier tells her lover Armand Duval that she cannot see him again. Liz knew the story from Dumas’s novel, La Dame aux Camélias. She knew that Marguerite was still in love with Armand, but had been persuaded by the man’s father that it was best if she broke off the relationship. Marguerite was a well-known courtesan – based on a woman that Dumas had himself loved.

  And like Dumas’s own lover, Marguerite was destined to die a slow, wasting death from consumption. But that was not for many scenes yet. The spark of love between Marguerite and Armand would still be there, tragically, as she died …

  Malvern was of course playing Armand Duval, combining fury and disappointment with his passion as Marguerite dismissed him. As Marguerite, Marie Cuttler was cold and aloof but with an underlying depth of emotion that brought tears to Liz’s eyes. The actress was pale, but with a slight blush to her cheeks that heightened the emotion of the scene still further. Watching them act, Liz was sure that this was what she herself wanted to do. And inside, she despaired at ever aspiring to the levels of talent displayed in front of her.

  As the scene closed, Armand turned on his heel and left. The door closed behind him, and Marguerite collapsed to the floor in tears she had not been able to cry while the man she loved was present. As one, the actors in front of the stage applauded, and Liz found that she was clapping with them – laughing and crying at the same time.

  Malvern returned to the stage, smiling, and took a short bow before helping Marie Cuttler to her feet. The actress dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and smiled her own appreciation. Liz marvelled at how she could turn such passionate emotion up and down like a gas lamp.

  ‘I think that will suffice for this evening,’ Malvern announced. ‘Thank you to those who stayed when they did not need to. I certainly value your comments, your support, and your appreciation and I imagine Marie does too.’

  ‘Oh, I do. My colleagues are always my best critics,’ Marie said.

  Everyone laughed politely, and the company slowly dispersed. A couple of the actors nodded to Liz as they walked past, heading for the front of the theatre. The rest disappeared backstage.

  Malvern put his hand gently on Marie’s arm. ‘Could you spare me a moment longer, do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I can. Anything for you, Henry.’

  Malvern led her to the edge of the stage and helped her down into the auditorium. Then he nodded towards where Liz was still sitting. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  Charlie had been looking at carriages all day. He’d seen dozens of them, but none with the sort of pattern that Eddie had mentioned on the door. He did feel that he was getting close, though. Nellie the porter’s daughter at Waterloo had told him she thought she saw the carriage picking up at the station the previous day. Or maybe setting down.

  ‘It was smoggy,’ she admitted. ‘Didn’t see too well. Just, like, the shape of it. There was something on the door, but the driver got shirty when I got close.’ She sniffed. ‘I was hoping for a tip. Carry a bag or something. But he put his whip up to me so I hoofed it.’

  ‘Where did it go?’ Charlie asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Towards Charing Cross, so far as I could tell.’

  There was a lamplighter called Nick at Charing Cross who was about the same age as Charlie and used to be at the workhouse, before he upped and left. Charlie saw him sometimes, round the town. And yes, he reckoned he’d seen the carriage with the pattern on the door.

  ‘Try down Albernum Street,’ he said. ‘You know, round the back of the posh clubs and that, up west. I’ve seen it there a couple of times, I’m sure, when I’ve been covering for Josiah Cooper.’ The lad grinned, showing off broken teeth. ‘You’d better be getting back though or Pearce’ll have you.’

  ‘He won’t know,’ Charlie said. ‘He never checks who’s in and who’s out.’

  ‘That John Remick still there?’ Nick asked. When Charlie nodded, the lamplighter’s grin got wider. ‘He’ll tell Pearce. Or duff you up himself.’

  Charlie swallowed. Remick was a nasty piece of work who’d thump the smaller kids just to hear them squeal. With Pearce the workhouse master, Remick was helpful and polite. With any of the other kids, he was a violent bully. Which was probably why Pearce liked him. Remick kept the children in order better than Pearce himself ever could.

  Despite his anxiety about being late back and incurring the fist of John Remick or the strap of Master Pearce, or both, Charlie decided to take a diversion and walk down Albernum Street. It was a mile away, so it took him a while. The cold damp evening was heavy with fog, and the lamps were vague glows in the hazy air.

  Albernum Street ran parallel to a larger road where there were several imposing town houses and a couple of gentlemen’s clubs. Charlie didn’t really know the area. But he remembered the street as one he’d hidden in from a policeman when he was trying to make a living lifting watches and wallets. He’d not been any good at it and almost got caught more times than he could recall. Not like Eddie, Charlie thought as he turned into the narrow street – now Eddie could lift anything from anyone and they’d not know for ages. Soft and quick as a butterfly, were Eddie’s fingers …

  There was a carriage at the side of the street. The fog was so deep here that Charlie nearly walked into it. The dark outline loomed out of the gathering night, and he stepped off the pavement quickly. His heart was beating faster as he peered through the gloom. He could see the door handle, but no design. Just a cab. He sighed with disappointment and walked quickly on.

  There was another cab further along, outside the back of one of the clubs. Maybe gentlemen used the rear exit if they didn’t want to be seen leaving. Charlie knew some gentlemen – and some clubs – were like that. He barely glanced at the cab as he walked past.

  And froze in mid-step. Colour in the grey of the fog. Brilliant red, burning through the colourless air around it. The shape that Eddie had drawn in the dust. Charlie almost called out in triumph, and took a step closer to the carriage, staring intently at the shape. No doubt about it – this was the carriage Eddie wanted.

  ‘You – boy!’ The voice was clear and commanding, cutting through the fog from above.

  The driver of the carriage was leaning down towards Charlie, whip in hand.

  Charlie stepped back, ready to run. But something about the man’s deep dark voice made him hesitate, as if his feet did not want to obey his fear. ‘Sorry,’ he stammered. ‘Just looking.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  He answered despite his fear. Like his voice was not his own. ‘Charlie Frankham. From the Kenton Workhouse. I didn’t mean no harm.’

  As the Coachman raised his whip hand, a door at the back of the building opened. Light washed through the swirling fog, illuminating the Coachman’s face for a moment.

  A face like a pale skull.

  In that moment, the spell was broken. Charlie’s legs began to feel like his own again. And he ran.

  ‘I sometimes think,’ Marie Cuttler confided in Liz, ‘the only time that man feels emotion is when he’s on stage. Perhaps that’s why he does it.’

  They both turned slightly to watch Malvern as he paced the stage, occasionally adjusting a piece of furniture or an ornament in Marguerite Gautier’s room.

  ‘I hardly know him, I’m afraid,’ Liz said.

  ‘I hardly know him myself,’ Marie sa
id quietly. ‘And we’ve been appearing together here for over five years.’ She smiled. ‘I mustn’t be too down on him. Many years ago, he gave me my first real chance on the stage. And you’ve seen yourself, he’s an accomplished actor.’

  ‘That scene between you was incredible,’ Liz told her.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’

  The words sounded quaint and odd coming from such a beautiful young woman. Though now that Liz was close to Marie, she could see that her face was thick with make-up and her cheeks were pink with rouge. Beneath it, Marie Cuttler was not so young as she would like to appear. But then, that was true of many of the women in the theatre. Experience came with the greatest price of all …

  ‘Henry tells me you’ve some little acting experience yourself.’

  ‘Little is right,’ Liz said, feeling her cheeks redden without the need for rouge.

  ‘That’s lucky.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need a maid,’ Marie said. She laughed as she saw Liz’s expression. ‘I don’t mean I really need a maid, dear. But little Beryl who was playing Marguerite’s maid didn’t turn up this evening. Henry says he always worried about her and doesn’t expect to see her again. He’s usually right. Good at judging character. What do you think?’

  Liz felt her face was burning now. ‘Me? But, what if Beryl does come back? What if she’s been ill or something?’

  ‘What if she doesn’t?’ Marie countered. ‘It isn’t a big role. Not many lines. But lots of time on stage with Marguerite. I need someone I can get on with, and just between the two of us, Beryl was such a …’ She stopped and laughed. ‘Well, I won’t say what she was, but I’m sure you get the idea. She wasn’t someone I could easily talk to. Be a friend.’

  ‘I, well …’ Liz was blustering. ‘My father, he doesn’t really … That is, I’m not sure if I could – if I’d be able to …’ Her voice faded as she ran out of words, still without saying what was on her mind.