A short man by the bar, in ill-fitting corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket, looked like Jack’s idea of an academic. She ordered a sparkling water and sat in the corner of the bar, near the log fire, to watch him. A quick look around found a couple of girls chatting, a young man who seemed known to the landlord, and a thin man in a suit with a briefcase. She dismissed him as a commercial traveller.
She focused her attentions on the shorter man. He looked around a few times but without interest. She settled into her wing chair and reached her cold feet towards the fire. Each winter was becoming harder to endure. Perhaps the diminished life force or energy, or whatever it was, was running out. She’d never heard of a borrowed timer over forty. For a moment sadness crept into her along with the cold, and she leaned towards the fire.
‘Ms Hammond?’ A man she hadn’t seen was leaning over her, one hand extended. She took it with some surprise, the skin feeling warm and strong as he gripped her fingers. ‘I’m Felix Guichard.’
‘Jackdaw Hammond.’
He was tall, over six feet, she guessed, and lean, dressed in a navy suit and a blue shirt but no tie. His eyes were deep-set and dark green, and for a moment she couldn’t look away. She watched him pull up a chair and sit opposite her. He didn’t look like a professor of esoteric religions, he looked like a country solicitor.
He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then narrowed his eyes, looking her over. ‘You were at the station last Monday night.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was there. The police called me in.’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. ‘I was going to see a friend but the trains were cancelled. I didn’t fancy the bus. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it?’
He turned his head a little, as if looking at her from a different angle would tell him more. Jack could feel warmth creeping into her face.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’ His voice was a soft baritone, but it had a harder edge now. ‘What’s the chance that someone who once owned a medal covered in symbols would be at the scene of a dead girl covered in the same shapes?’
She stared down at her drink, watching bubbles shiver against the glass until they lost their hold, and wavered to the surface. Gathering herself, she looked up, meeting his eyes. ‘You asked me to help you, Professor. What do you want?’
He stared at her for a few seconds, and then nodded. He reached down, and lifted a case onto the table. Locks clicked, over a background of hissing and crackling in the grate, and muted conversations at the bar. While he was looking down she had a chance to examine him. His hair was dark and wavy, sprinkled with grey, framing a tanned face. Lines around his eyes, and a little slackness on his neck, put him in his forties or so. He wore a wedding ring on long, brown hands. He glanced up and she looked away.
‘The symbols were drawn on the body of a young girl,’ he said. ‘Did you see her?’
‘No. I got to the station just as the police were covering up the train.’ That at least was true. ‘And she had things drawn on her that were a bit like the ones on the medals we sold?’ She looked up, trying to keep her eyes level and straight, acting innocent. The laser stare was too intense and she dropped her gaze and picked up her drink.
‘How did you come by the medals in the first place?’
‘They belonged to a friend, Mrs Slee, Maggie. Her grandmother inherited them.’ She shrugged. ‘She was a bit of a collector of historical items. There was a whole box of stuff, papers, medals, even a couple of swords and a pewter plate.’
He drew out some scanned pictures of the medals, blown up to A4 size.
‘These were struck in Poland, by order of King Istvan, in honour of John Dee.’ He showed her the four sheets, each medal, back and front, spreading them on the table in front of her. ‘What do you know about them?’
‘Not much. Maggie kept them in a box in the attic; I used to play with them as a kid. I can’t see that they have anything to do with a dead girl.’ She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with the lies.
His hand stalled over the briefcase, then drew out a sheet of paper covered in sketches of the symbols. Shit. They must have taken the drawings from Carla’s body. She stared at the sigils, although she could draw all of them from memory.
He continued. ‘It would be a very strange coincidence that those exact symbols, which until three years ago only you and your friend knew about, ended up in the same sequence on a dead body.’ His voice deepened as he lowered it, like a growl from a dog that might not be friendly. ‘They are unique in the textual record.’
She pushed the paper back towards him. ‘We sold those medals two and a half years ago. I don’t know how many people have seen them since. The auction house, the museum …’ She looked up to find him focusing on her. ‘There was some expert who saw them for the auction, for example.’
The corners of his mouth turned up. ‘Actually, that was me. I was asked to authenticate them.’
She smiled in return, although she was shaking inside with cold or anxiety or just the attention of this strange man. He pulled out some more sketches, the circle of symbols she had copied onto Carla’s bony back.
‘They look like made-up letters to me,’ she lied, and finished her drink. ‘Sorry I can’t be more help. I do have to get back.’ The shivery feeling condensed into a sensation of being watched. She turned slightly to one side, as if looking for her bag, while sweeping the bar with a glance under her lashes, then turned back to the professor.
He dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but a young woman has died. Another is missing. You or your friend might have a piece of information that would lead the police to solve the case.’
‘I suppose I could look around the loft, see if there are any more old items,’ she said, shrugging. ‘And I could ask Maggie if she knows something. But … is this a murder investigation?’ She pushed the drawing back towards him.
‘Maybe.’ A sad smile touched his lips, and he suddenly looked younger, and rather more attractive. He took the paper, his warm fingers brushing hers with a tiny, electrical contact. Jack pulled her hands back into her lap.
She glanced at the bar. The thin man in grey sat immobile on a stool, staring at the specials’ board, their table in his peripheral vision.
She leaned forward. ‘I have to go, Professor.’
‘Felix, please.’ He sounded tired. ‘Well, I won’t waste any more of your time. Let me know if you find anything else, or remember more details.’
She stood, and he unfolded himself from the chair and reached out a hand. She hesitated before his warm skin pressed hers, and for a moment she felt the urge to stop time and let his warmth spread through her. For a long moment she waited for him to speak, then pulled her fingers away and turned to go.
‘Goodbye, Felix.’
‘One last thing. At the station, you looked … sad, really upset. Why?’
She was still for a moment, aware that the man at the bar was now watching both of them, and within earshot. She stepped closer, surprised to find how tall he was, and murmured up at him.
‘Don’t look round. A man at the bar is watching us, I think he’s listening too.’
Standing so close to him, she staggered a little, and he put one hand on her waist to steady her. The heat from his hand radiated through her clothes.
‘What?’ Despite her warning he started to turn his head.
‘No! Just pretend you are saying goodbye. Look … I don’t think the medals, or any of it, had anything to do with that girl’s death. Can’t you just let it go?’
‘I can’t. Not just because of the police – but also because something happened to that girl, something to do with belief in magical systems connected with Dee. I can’t see the association yet, but this could further my research. Maybe it will help solve the mystery about her death, too.’
She stepped away from him, and forced a smile for the benefit of their observer. ‘I’ll cal
l you, we can talk more. OK?’
‘Just make sure you do call. I have to give a full and comprehensive report to the police.’
‘Can you keep my name out of it?’
‘If you tell me everything you know. Hopefully, that would be enough.’
Avoiding looking in the direction of the bar, she wrapped her coat around her and slipped out of the pub. She waited in the shadow of a wall for a few moments.
Felix walked out of the doorway into a wedge of light from the porch, and crossed the car park. He opened the door of an old Jag.
As Felix was momentarily lit up by the interior light, the grey man slid out of the pub doorway and into a waiting vehicle. When Felix’s car pulled out, the man’s rumbled into action, and slid after it.
Jack turned up the hill towards her own vehicle, unlocked it, and threw her bag onto the passenger seat. She started the engine, turned on lights and windscreen wipers, and glanced in her mirrors. As the car pulled away from the kerb, the rear window was backlit by a street light. Jack’s breath stuck in her throat.
There was someone in the back seat of her car.
Jack stiffened. She could see a narrow head with wispy curls. She braked in the middle of the road, and a driver behind her had to brake as well. His headlights reflected enough light around the car to see that the uninvited passenger was an older woman. Before Jack could react, she heard a soft voice.
‘Stop.’
The tension fell away.
Jack sagged, eyes locked on the mirror, her muscles softening. The woman’s voice was gentle, and she felt a wave of warmth and well-being creep over her. A distant voice in the back of her mind screamed for action, but the rest of her relaxed. A car sounded its horn, but it sounded far away.
‘Who … who are you?’ Her slow tongue formed words that rolled out, one by one.
‘You don’t need to know.’ The words filled Jack’s head with cotton wool, stifling the beginnings of questions or thoughts. ‘Drive me to your home.’
Jack’s body drove the car slowly along the road, as the remaining kernel of consciousness screamed at her to stop. Out of habit, Jack looked in the mirror again, but the woman’s gaze seemed to fill the view of the back of the car. The eyes were the lightest of blues, and so full of understanding and compassion that Jack started to well up with tears. The woman’s face was beautiful, but unreal. Like a fairy queen.
Jack’s hands and feet, independent of her mind, changed gear. Some part of her, some small homunculus lost in her brain, started shrieking with protests, but her numbed body drove efficiently out of the town. Minutes passed as she dazedly followed the road and responded to traffic. With horror, she realised she was approaching the turning towards the road to the village.
‘Drive home.’ The woman’s words lanced her tiny resistance and she felt her own face crease into a smile at the pleasure of being able to comply. The rain came down harder, and her shrivelled consciousness was mesmerised again by the quiet sweep, sweep of wipers. The next time she was aware of her surroundings, she was turning the car into Hambolt village, about a mile from the cottage. The council had installed traffic-calming measures, and she had to wait for a car approaching. On either side of the road stood two massive limestone blocks, once part of a megalithic tomb. She could feel, under the blanket of sedation and obedience the woman was weaving, the dark energy seeping from the stones. As she moved the car forward she mentally reached for it, feeling energy like icy water washing through her. She gripped the steering wheel tight with hands that felt numbed with cold. Gathering her will in the moment when the enchantment was weakest, between the stones, she stamped on the accelerator. The car jerked forward as she slammed into another gear and concentrated on the moment of clarity. The woman was jolted back into her seat, breaking the spell further. Jack tore through the village and wrenched the wheel at the first turning, into the church car park. Floodlights picked up the motion and snapped on, almost blinding her. Every nerve burned as her limbs throbbed back to life, and she smashed the car into the wall of the churchyard.
Chapter 16
‘They say that wealth lays beauty upon a woman, but I believe it is rather power that does so. She could have had, at a whispered command to any of a hundred nobles and servants, my death. It was this that impressed me when I met the Lady Erzsébet Báthory, despite her mortal weakness, because I could not take my eyes off her.’
Edward Kelley
20 November 1585
Niepolomice
After the noon bell, we were summoned to our audience with King Istvan in his own quarters. These were a set of large rooms in the new wing of the castle, and the panelling, tapestries and generous glass windows were akin to one of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth’s minor palaces. A polished black table ran down the middle of the room, big enough for a score of people. Only four high-backed chairs were occupied, and I bowed to the king and Lord Miklós. My master was shown to a padded stool and offered wine by a silent servant. I was gestured to a bench beside him, and also given a cup. A dozen guards stood around the doorways, out of earshot.
‘Doctor Dee.’ The king inclined his head with slow courtesy. He indicated the powerful man beside him. ‘Count Nádasdy, commander-in-chief of my armies.’
Up close, the man was in his late twenties or so, and dressed more regally than the king. His eyes flickered over Dee and focused on myself, sneering at us both. My attention was then drawn to the remaining person on the left side of the king.
She sat straight in her chair, and at first I thought she was a child. I had never seen that colour on a living person, her skin as bloodless as a corpse. Her blue eyes, deep-set into the emaciated face, burned with an unnatural light and seemed to scorch as her gaze swept over me on the way to Dee. She stared at him with the rudeness of royalty. Her dress was embroidered and so stiff with metal thread and jewels that it seemed to hold up the shrivelled body within.
The king waved a hand at her. ‘And this is Count Nádasdy’s wife, my niece. Countess Erzsébet Báthory Nádasdy. As you would say, the Countess Elizabeth Báthory.’
She nodded to Dee, and then to me, dropping her eyes for a moment.
Dee stood and swept a courtier’s bow. ‘My lady. Are you comfortable in Latin?’
‘In Latin, German, French … but not in English, I regret.’ Her voice was low, and I leaned forward to hear. Despite her frailty, her blue eyes were keen and flicked over us. Her voice had more power than her weak body would suggest, even as she steadied herself against the table. Despite the early hour, the room was dark and the servant set a branch of candles on the table. She wavered her other hand to her eyes and the servant moved the candelabra further away.
The king waved and the door closed with a soft clunk. Barring the servitor with the candles, we were alone with the king and his noble relatives.
‘You may speak freely. Gábor is mute. He is also one of my most loyal servants.’ King Istvan put out a hand, and a golden goblet was placed in it.
Dee nodded thanks for his goblet – more ornate than mine, I noticed – and took a sip. Then he placed it on the table, all the time scrutinising the lady.
‘Countess, may I ask what ails you?’ he said.
‘You know my mother’s story?’ She waved away the servant. ‘Lady Anna was a good and devout woman who deserved a longer life. But she suffered from a weakness, a sickness that can only be treated by certain herbs and remedies. Feel the pulse in my wrist.’ She reached out one hand, the fingers skeletal, the knuckles prominent. Her skin was very white and soft, her nails long and oval. A ring, loose on her emaciated thumb, had a dragon coiled about a ruby the size of a robin’s egg. It was so red it was almost black.
Dee hesitated for a second, and then took her hand. I could see the shock on his face in the candlelight.
‘My lady … you are very cold.’ He pressed two fingers to the pulse in her arm, searching for it gently, failing to find it for a long moment. No one moved nor spoke, and when he breathed ou
t it was a shocking sigh in the silent room, as if we had all been holding our breath.
‘I am no doctor,’ he said, releasing her hand, ‘but your heart beats very slow.’
‘Since my marriage, the treatments my healing woman gives me have become less effective. I am not normally as weak as you see me now.’
Dee spread out his hands. ‘My lady, I am a scholar and, I hope, a good Christian. If I can help—’
The king leaned back in his chair and rested one hand on his spreading belly. ‘We have heard about the speech you have had with angels.’
‘Indeed.’ Dee bowed his head for a moment.
‘How can you be certain that any such communication is with angels, and not demons or evil spirits?’
‘The messages have been for the benefit of mankind. Of that I am sure. There is a … an odour, an atmosphere, when they reveal their wisdoms to me, their servant.’
King Istvan crossed himself and murmured a blessing. I noticed the woman did not.
‘And you saw these beings,’ the countess pressed, like a child.
‘They spoke to me when they inhabited my colleague, Master Kelley. He has seen them.’
All turned to me, and I felt unpleasantly hot.
The king rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘What did you see?’
I could not lie to either and mumbled the truth. ‘I have seen a great radiance, and a sword, and great giants made of blinding light that burned my eyes.’
‘And these beings … possessed you?’ The young woman’s eyes, blue as a summer sky, stared at me. I found myself speaking directly to her.
‘When he appears to me it is like a dream, in which my mouth speaks and Doctor Dee listens.’ I took a deep draught of the strong wine. ‘He – Saraquel – fills me with such hope, but such fear.’
The king put a hand on his niece’s shoulder, as if to prevent her touching me as she leaned forward. ‘I must consult my priests,’ he said in his gruff Latin.
‘We welcome it,’ said Dee, as calm as ever. ‘We have discussed our findings with many bishops and clerics, as well as scholars and philosophers.’
The Secrets of Life and Death Page 8