‘A bridle-bit shall be set in her jaws that shall be forged in the Bay of Armorica . . . Then shall there be slaughter of the foreigners; then shall the rivers run blood; then shall gush forth the fountains of Armorica.’
He stopped suddenly. His lilting voice had filled the dark chamber in which he sat, but he fancied there had been another sound. Like the creaking of the stairs leading to this room, which was set high in the eaves of the house. He sat in silence, the only sound being that of his own heart thudding in his chest. He essayed a laugh at his fears, but it came out as a nervous squeak. He spoke to himself again to bolster his courage.
‘Hah! I’ll be imagining its old Boney himself come to do for me. Despite his safe imprisonment on St Helena. Just because I can discern his downfall in Merlin’s words, it does not mean he will come to haunt me.’
The ensuing silence convinced Augustus that he was truly imagining things. He turned the pages of Jeffrey’s work and scrutinized the brief sentence that he came back to time and again. Once again it steadfastly refused to give up its secret meaning.
‘The renowned King Arthur himself was wounded deadly, and was borne thence unto the Island of Avalon for the healing of his wounds.’
Behind Augustus’ back the door swung silently open.
Malinferno felt he was in the presence of royalty. Monsieur Jean-Claude Casteix was attired in a sort of antiquated court dress that had gone out of fashion in England with the arrival of Beau Brummell twenty years ago. For a start he wore on his head a powdered wig, no less. His bulky form was clad in a heavily brocaded coat with a long waistcoat under it and satin knee-britches. Below the breeches, his white stockings were suspiciously well filled at the calf, as if faked with padding. His left leg was raised on a small footstool, and he held a silver-topped ebony cane in one hand. The chair he sat rigidly upright in was almost as heavily brocaded as his coat, and he was surrounded by small mementos of his time in Egypt. Malinferno’s gaze was particularly taken by a group of four jars, made of limestone, that sat on the table at Casteix’s elbow. The Frenchman saw Malinferno’s interest.
‘Ah. The canopic jars from the unnamed tomb in the Valley of the Kings.’ Casteix’s speech was still heavily accented, and he gazed fondly at the jars, recalling their discovery, which he had made along with two young engineers, Jollois and de Villiers. ‘They represent the four sons of Horus. Each jar houses parts of the internal organs of a pharaoh.’ He pointed first at the jackal-headed jar. ‘Duamutef contains the stomach. Qebehsenuf, the falcon-headed one, the intestines. Hapi of the baboon head houses the lungs, and—’
Malinferno could no longer resist showing off his own knowledge. ‘And the human-headed jar represents Imseti and contains the liver.’
Casteix tilted his own head, showing evident surprise that the ignorant young Englishman should know so much.
‘I see I must revise my opinion of you, Mister—’
‘Malinferno.’
‘Ah.’ Casteix now understood why he had made the wrong assumption about the youth’s education. ‘Not English, then, but from one of those myriad little states that makes up the Italian peninsula. There is a chance for you after all.’
Malinferno did not choose to correct the French savant. His father had been Italian, it is true, but his mother was English, and he had been educated in England. Still, let the old man think him a fellow foreigner, if it created a bond of sorts between them. Casteix eased the leg that was perched on the footstool and sighed. Malinferno assumed it must trouble him, but good manners prevented him from enquiring of the cause of his malaise. He manoeuvred the savant into reminiscing about his past.
‘The Valley of the Kings, you say. And that was in 1799 . . . ?’
‘Yes, two years before the British soldiers came and plundered our finds. The surrender list included several obelisks and statues, sarcophagi and . . . the Rosetta Stone, of course.’ The old man’s rheumy eyes glazed over once more at the thought of what the French had lost in 1801. ‘If only Napoleon had been there at the time, things might have been different. But we were in the hands of the despicable General Menou. Do you know in what contempt he held us savants? Do you know what he said to the English general when we vowed we would not be separated from our collection?’
Malinferno shook his head.
‘He called us faiseurs de collections – collection makers – as if we were nothing more than gatherers of random odds and ends. He said that, if we chose to travel to England with our collections of birds, butterflies and reptiles, he would not prevent us also being stuffed for the purpose.’
Malinferno suppressed a smile at the outraged general’s comments. He could see that Casteix was scandalized still by Menou’s words, even after almost twenty years. Years that Casteix had spent in exile in England along with the treasures that had found their way to the British Museum.
Casteix reflected on the misfortune that had resulted from him making the larger items in the collection his particular study, for they alone had come to England. The smaller items had in the end been left with the others savants, who to a man had carried them back to France in their personal baggage. Casteix alone had spent bitter years in the land of his enemy, becoming ever more and more irascible. Now, though the hostilities between England and France had ceased, he was still not able to return home. He had found himself something and nothing – a traitor of sorts, and now outside the charmed circle of French Egyptologists. His knowledge of value only to this ill-informed Englishman. Or was he Italian? Somehow it hardly seemed to matter.
Malinferno nervously produced the thigh-bone given to him by Augustus Bromhead, and he held it out for Casteix to examine.
‘Monsieur, can you tell me if you think this bone has any age?’
The savant was at first inclined to dismiss the offered bone with a wave of his imperious hand. Did not this youth know it was impossible to age a bone with any accuracy? But then he decided to take the specimen and delay his observation. Truth to tell, he was an old man whom no one came to consult on scientific matters any more. At least he could coax another visit out of this Malinferno.
‘Hmm. Leave it with me, and I will examine it properly. You can come back tomorrow or the next day, when I have had time to consider. Do you know . . . where it was exhumed?’
He knew that if the man said Egypt, then he could at least suggest it was old without seeming too ill-informed. But Malinferno was being cagey.
‘I would rather not say just now. Suffice it to say that it has been nowhere near the British Museum. And talking of that institution, I wanted to ask you about the Rosetta Stone . . .’
His mention of the stone seemed to galvanize the old savant. Suddenly Casteix pushed himself up on his silver-topped cane and hobbled over to the heavy mahogany table in the centre of the room. He brought the ebony cane down with a thwack on the paper that lay on its surface.
‘It was stolen from us, sir. Stolen. But now perhaps some restitution will have to be made.’
There was an edge of triumph in his quavering voice, which confused Malinferno.
‘Why is that, monsieur le professeur?’
A self-satisfied leer distorted the old man’s face.
‘Do you not read your own newspapers, man?’ It seemed for a moment that he had forgotten his assumptions about Malinferno’s nationality, for he grabbed the newspaper from the table and waved it in his guest’s face. Malinferno recognized it as that days’ edition of The Times, which due to his dalliance with the rat-faced Kitten he had so far failed to peruse. He wondered what the Thunderer had reported within its pages that had so excited the old Frenchman. He was not in ignorance for long, as Casteix took delight in informing him. His face turned an unhealthy purple with the emotion of the moment.
‘The Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte has escaped from his prison on St Helena and will soon be threatening these very isles with invasion.’
‘Augustus! Gus . . . Gus. Are you there?’
Malinferno rushed up
the winding staircase to Bromhead’s study, which was sequestered in the loft of the dusty old house. He was winded by the time he got to the top and leaned on the banisters outside the door to regain his breath. The Frenchman’s startling news had shocked him to the core. The last time Napoleon had escaped his island prison on Elba, he had raised an army of 350,000 and terrified Europe for a hundred days. Leaving Casteix’s house and hurrying through the streets of London, Malinferno could see that the rumours of his second escape were causing equal panic. People were scurrying back and forth looking over their shoulders as if Bonaparte were already in pursuit. In one of the new town squares that he crossed, servants were even boarding up their masters’ fashionable windows, as if invasion was imminent. He passed a butcher’s shop inside which chaos reigned as a group of liveried servants, attempting to buy up all the meat on display for their masters, were carrying out a three-way tug of war on a haunch of pork. Fear of blockaded ports, it seemed, was concentrating the minds of the well-to-do.
Malinferno had intended to return to his lodgings, but he knew that Mrs Stanhope would be in a tizzy about Boney’s escape. He did not have the time to waste reassuring her that all would be well. Especially as he was far from certain himself that disaster was not imminent. He wanted to talk to Bromhead, and tax the old man on what it was best to do. Crossing London Bridge, he had the uneasy feeling that someone was dogging his heels, a feeling he had had ever since leaving Casteix’s residence. But every time he turned around to look, he could see no one following him. He put it down to his own mad fears. There were said to be so many sympathizers of Bonaparte’s cause in the capital that Lord Liverpool’s government had spies ferreting them out. Even the Princess of Wales was said to be an admirer. But then she was an exile from England in much the same way as Boney was.
Instead of going to Creechurch Lane, Malinferno had made his way over London Bridge, down Tooley Street and was now at the Court Yard in Bermondsey. The little antiquarian’s house was in a row of tenements squeezed in between St Mary Magdalen Church and the noxious marshes south of the river. Bromhead would no doubt be oblivious to the news that was spreading like wildfire across London, immersed as he was in his studies. Malinferno not only wanted to gauge his reaction, but needed to talk to Augustus about the bag of old bones. He needed more information, if he was to see Casteix again and not appear an ignoramus. On the basis of the savant’s reaction, he also felt less inclined to mock Bromhead’s opinion that the bones were very old. In fact he was now very curious to discover whose bones Bromhead reckoned they were. Hence the headlong rush up the stairs.
His breath back, Malinferno burst into Bromhead’s dark and gloomy study.
‘Gus, have you heard the news . . . ?’
He paused, more than a little perplexed. The room was in utter darkness. There were no lamps burning, and the shutters on the windows must be closed for it to be so Stygian. Yet Bromhead should have been at home. The little dwarf of a man hardly left his house for fear of being mocked by the street urchins who frequented the rundown area. Malinferno often wondered why he continued to live in such a drab part of London, when he knew the antiquarian was of independent means. He could have afforded one of those new-style houses in Bloomsbury Square where the booksellers and cabinetmakers dwelled. But he seemed to prefer his creaky old residence in Grange Walk, and virtually lived on this upper floor surrounded by his collections of books and maps. So where was he?
As Malinferno’s eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed darkness, he could see that the high stool that was Bromhead’s throne was unoccupied. Nor was the man anywhere else in the room. And then he saw out of the corner of his eye that the heavy shadow below one of the high windows had shifted slightly. He gasped involuntarily and turned back towards the door. But before he could reach it, the shadow converged on the same spot and grabbed his outstretched arm. The hand was much more substantial than a shadow had the right to be. And the grip was vice-like. Malinferno felt as faint as one of his well-to-do female clients at the moment of an unrolling. His legs wobbled, and he tottered forward. Suddenly the hand was supporting his slumping body rather than restraining him. And the shadow spoke.
‘Please. I did not mean to startle you. Only your arrival had me scared too, and for a moment I did not know what to do other than hide in the shadows.’
The stranger led Malinferno out on to the landing, where there was more light. Leaning once again on the handrail, Malinferno took a few deep breaths. He also took the time to take a look at the man who stood beside him. He didn’t look much like a murderer. In fact his face was as pale and drawn as Malinferno assumed his was at that moment. He was a tall, thin man with a stoop that suggested he was rather reserved in company, and that he bent over to conceal his height. The top of his head was completely devoid of hair, though it grew long and dark about his ears. His clothes were not of the latest fashion, and when Malinferno gazed furtively at his hands, which twisted nervously around his sturdy cane, he saw they were stained. He guessed the man was a cabinetmaker, and thought it an odd coincidence that he had been thinking of those who lived in Bloomsbury Square only minutes before. The man suddenly thrust out one of the hands Malinferno had been examining.
‘My name, sir, is Thomas Dale. I am a co-er-cabinetmaker.’
‘And mine Joe Malinferno. Scientist.’
Malinferno’s hand was taken in the firm and calloused grip of a man who used his hands for his trade, and then shaken vigorously.
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance Mr . . . Malinferno. Once more I beg your forgiveness for my skulking ways.’ Dale laughed nervously. ‘I thought you were poor Bromhead’s murderer come back to cover up the deed.’
‘Bromhead’s murderer? Is he dead, then? How do you know?’
Dale’s face fell, and his hands twitched ever more vigorously.
‘Oh, I don’t know for sure. But the evidence is there to see. Come, I will show you.’
Malinferno followed Dale back into the room, still a little fearful that his companion might be the murderer, seeking to lay a false trail. Dale rushed over to the windows and flung the shutters back. As light poured back into the room, and Malinferno squinted around, uncertain of what he should be looking at, Dale strode over to Bromhead’s work table.
‘Look here. There are signs of a struggle – precious books scattered on the floor in a way Mr Bromhead would never have done himself.’ He bent down to pick one up. ‘This is a rare copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s history of the kings of England. He would never have left it so.’
Dale folded back a creased page lovingly and, closing the book, laid it back on the table. Then he pointed at something far more alarming on the edge of the table.
‘And look here. There are bloodstains.’
Malinferno’s stomach lurched, and for once he was glad he had missed his breakfast. He gritted his teeth and looked more closely at where Dale was pointing. It was true. There was a large area of darkened wood, and evidence that something resembling blood had dripped off the edge of the table and on to the floor. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Perhaps Augustus cut himself and swept the books away from it before it stained them.’
Grimly Thomas Dale shook his head.
‘No. I smell death here, and I know it well, believe me. I have some experience in these matters.’
Malinferno wondered why a cabinetmaker should know the scent of death. But before he could question the man, Dale was striding around the room clearly looking for something that he could not find.
‘And where are the bones?’
Malinferno held his breath for a moment, wondering if Dale meant the same bones he now possessed. Did the man know Bromhead had passed the bones on to him, and were they valuable? He tried to inject his next question with an air of sincerity.
‘Bones? What bones are these?’
Dale stopped his search, and a look of confusion came over his face. Malinferno could see that Dale had made an error in talking so openl
y, and was now deciding whether to confide in him. Finally he spoke in low tones that suggested he did not want anyone else to hear.
‘Why, King Arthur’s bones, of course.’
A dark figure passed under one of the newfangled street gaslamps outside Augustus Bromhead’s residence and hovered for a moment. His coachman’s overcoat had the collar pulled up so that, along with the wide-brimmed hat he wore, little could be seen of the man’s face. To be certain of his anonymity, he moved a step or two away from the fizzing lamp and looked up to the windows at the top of the house.
It had been several hours since he had followed Malinferno from the Frenchman’s residence to here, and he was unaware if anyone else was inside the house. He had seen some signs of movement at the upper window, but the angle was too steep from where he stood in the street to be sure. Darkness had fallen, and a lamp had been lit in the house, but no further activity had taken place. Nor had Malinferno exited the building. But the secretive stranger was addicted to his task and had a great deal of patience. Malinferno had greatly interested him now that he had revealed a connection with the Frenchman, Casteix. The lurker drew a notebook from the pocket of his voluminous overcoat and began to make notes.
Malinferno was seated on Bromhead’s stool, pondering on the story he had just been told. The tale had been so long that darkness had fallen outside, and Dale had lit one of Bromhead’s lamps. He had even revealed the ancient and battered wooden chest that sat almost hidden under Bromhead’s large table. It was a squarish box, blackened with age and smooth to the touch as though it had been coated with some sort of resin. Crude metal hasps and hinges completed the sense of its being very old. Dale insisted that the bones had been found inside this very chest, though to Joe it looked so fragile that he couldn’t imagine it holding anything at all. Having told his story, he now paced around the floor of the upstairs rooms, while Joe perched himself on the high stool by the table. He queried again the name of the group of men who met in the antiquarian’s chambers.
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