The Orpheus Trail

by Maureen Duffy

  Phoebe had already metaphorically opened up the shop. ‘Nice day, Mr Kish. The sun’s come out for us.’

  I glanced in at the Discovery Centre on the way to my office. All was still as if the exhibition was holding its breath for the moment to spring into life. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to work on the annual report, now almost complete. I wondered whether, when it was finished and the exhibition over its inevitable teething problems, I could take a few days off and persuade Hilary to come away for our first holiday together. Surely we would be safe in Paris or Prague, the first places that came to mind. I sat day-dreaming a little, until Lisa opened the door.

  ‘The drinks and snacks for the VIPs are all ready. I thought we’d adjourn as soon as the chairman finishes thanking Lord Rochford.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t go on too long. Once he gets into his stride he can’t be stopped.’

  ‘What’s his lordship like? Have you met him?’

  ‘Once. Young, Labour life peer. Local boy, hence the title. One of the few IT companies that didn’t crash when the first ‘dot com’ bubble burst, though not in the Bill Gates league of course. Sits on the Parliamentary Science and Technology Committee. I hope he doesn’t think the whole concept is too…

  ‘Old-fashioned?’

  ‘I expect he’d call it analogue. I just hope he sees the development of science and technology as a continuum not something that sprang up overnight by courtesy of the first computer.’

  Phoebe put her head round the door. ‘There’s a man from The Echo, Mr Kish. Says he’d like a statement from you.’

  ‘Tell him to talk to me afterwards, Phoebe.’ It was too early to dig out the usual platitudes about our heritage and the value of a sense of history to society, even though I believed them. A feeling of weariness washed over me. I wanted the event to begin and then be over. I clung to a fragment of my dream of a time away from it all with Hilary, however brief. I only hoped I hadn’t left it too late to book Caesar in to his usual holiday home.

  Lisa went off to check on the final arrangements, Phoebe to unlock the front door and wave through early arrivals. It was time for me to go to the staff washroom and make myself as tidy as possible. The chairman wasn’t a fashionable open-necked shirt proponent. I stood up. Then the door opened and there was Hildreth. I had forgotten his threat to attend.

  ‘All ready for the grand opening, Alex. I’d like a little chat after if you’ve a moment.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘But I’ll have to chat up the chairman and Lord Rochford first. And then the local paper wants an interview.’

  ‘Not to worry. I’ll just hang about. Good luck.’ He shut the door quietly but firmly behind him. I gave him a few moments to get clear then followed him out, now desperately needing to get to the washroom and suddenly understanding what it might be like to piss yourself under stress. And yet he had said nothing alarming. It was just his presence that made me uneasy.

  I took up my place in the entrance hall, poised to greet the chairman and Lord Rochford as they arrived. The chairman was first, rubbing his palms together as if to make sure they were suitable to shake hands with his lordship. The invited public were arriving in dribs and drabs. Some I had to greet with different degrees of warmth, others I could just nod to as they passed.

  The Bateses were there as representatives of the local historical society. Harry’s wartime relic of a Flying Officer Kite moustache was neatly trimmed and combed to compensate for the tanned dome of his head and Jean still showed a trim ankle in high-heeled court shoes though they must both be in their eighties.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said, shaking their hands in turn.

  ‘A bit late for us’, Harry said, ‘the Victorians. But we wanted to show support.’ His camera dangled round his neck. ‘Just take a few pictures for the newsletter.’

  The chairman had moved away to stand expectantly inside the door apart from the local riff-raff as he probably saw them. I walked over to stand beside him. The trickle of last-minute comers dried up, ushered into the Discovery Centre by Phoebe and Reg, its usual curator. I could hear the buzz behind us as the chairman and I stood side by side, shifting slightly and looking out expectantly. I’d seen the same sort of body language from civil servants waiting for the minister to arrive at a conference on local archives I’d attended in Westminster.

  Suddenly there was a flurry and Lisa appeared, followed at a smart pace by a dark-haired, dark-suited man about my own age, and close behind him a young woman in light jacket and skirt who was either his wife or his PA. No one had warned me which. The chairman stepped forward. ‘So good of you to do this, Kevin.’

  ‘My pleasure, Ted.’

  ‘This is the museum’s director, Alex Kish.’

  ‘I thought we could just step into my office for a moment to agree the running order,’ I said as I shook hands. I led them towards my room.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked, not knowing how he liked to be addressed. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine. Some water might be useful. I seem to have woken up with the start of a summer cold. Got in rather a sweat running last evening.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll make sure there’s water there.’

  ‘Right,’ the chairman said. ‘I’ve got my speech here.’

  ‘I’ll say a few words to introduce you, chairman. Then if you could say a little bit about the service here and the particular relevance of a Victorian seaside exhibition. About ten minutes I think we agreed.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ve cut it down.’

  ‘Then you introduce Lord Rochford and hand over to him.’

  ‘I’ll just say how pleased I am to be here,’ Rochford said. ‘Something about how I used to be brought here as a kid. And then press the button and bingo. You’ll show me where it is before we start.’

  I tried a joke. ‘All a bit Heath Robinson rather than PowerPoint but at least it’s in period.’

  ‘Shall we get on with it then. Drinks after, Kish?!’

  ‘At the back of the room, if you don’t mind,’ I turned to Lord Rochford. ‘I’m afraid people like the celebrity to mingle a bit.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’m well trained. I imagine a donation from my company would be useful. I looked up your website.’

  ‘We’d be extremely grateful,’ I said, leading the way back into the entrance hall and through to the Discovery Centre, the buzz dying away as we entered, except for the usual one or two too intent on their conversations to notice.

  We walked along the aisle between the flanking rows of seats to the little dais at the front with its three chairs and low table, on which I was relieved to see three glasses and a bottle of fizzy water, and the lectern for the speakers.

  ‘There’s the button you press,’ I said, pointing it out to Lord Rochford. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have a power cut at the crucial moment.’

  We took our seats at the back. I poured out some water for us all and then stood up and moved to the lectern.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming. I hope this microphone is working’. I tapped it for the reassuring echo. ‘Can you hear me at the back?’ There were some murmurs of ‘yes’, and we were off. I heard my own voice mouthing a few banalities and then brought my part to a close with ‘So here is our chairman who will introduce our distinguished guest, Lord Rochford, to open this year’s summer exhibition.’ I sat down as the chairman strode to the lectern as if about to quell a riot or admonish the guilty.

  Looking out over the attentive faces I let my mind wander, not hearing his words. Whatever he said there was nothing now I could do to unsay or prevent it. It was better to switch off and deal with the flak later. Harry Bates wasn’t listening either but snapping away at the exhibits. Suddenly at the back of the room I saw Hildreth’s black curly head of hair like that of a young bullock and looked away hastily in case he caught my eye.

  The applause signalled the end of the chairman’s speech. Nervously, I would have
prayed whatever gods that the electrics might work. He stretched out an arm to wave Lord Rochford forward to the microphone. Rochford began on his childhood memories, obviously a seasoned performer, I saw his hand hovering over the button. Would it all work? I caught sight of Lisa’s anxious face where she stood just inside the door.

  ‘And so it gives me great pleasure to declare “A Victorian Day at the Seaside” open.’ His hand came down. There was a burst of music, the little train began to rush, the horses went up and down on the carousel, the curtains parted and the Laughing Policeman and Aunt Sally came rocking into view, laughing raucously. And then a gasp, a kind of yelp, went up from the audience and a loud buzz of conversation broke out. Aunt Sally was gone. The figure that had been projected forward in her place, backed by the mocking laughter, was that of a dead boy, his face smeared with what looked like blood where Aunt Sally’s red cheeks should have been, under the incongruity of her black hat.

  With great presence of mind Rochford hit the button again, the music died and everything came to a standstill. I was aware of Hildreth forcing his way to the front and stepping up to the lectern.

  ‘I am a police officer. Everyone please sit down for a moment. There’s no danger to you all, the public that is, but nothing must be disturbed. Alex, will your people please get everybody out now, a row at a time, starting from the back. Your names and addresses will be taken down outside in case we need to ask you questions later. Will you two gentlemen stay behind, please. I’ve called for some of the local police. They should be here shortly.’

  The two figures of the real boy and the Laughing Policeman had been caught, half in and half out of their stalls. My staff moved forward with the discipline learnt from our fire drill practices for evacuating the public. Only I seemed to be paralysed. Until the chairman hissed at me under his breath like some villain in a Victorian melodrama: ‘I’ll expect your resignation for this.’

  Even the unfairness of his words failed to rouse me. Sleepwalking, I moved forward to the familiar comfort of helping Lisa and others clear the building. Hildreth came over to exchange brief words with the first of the local police to arrive.

  ‘Can we use your room, Alex?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He turned to the chairman and Lord Rochford. ‘If you would, gentlemen.’ He ushered them out of the room. Those in the audience were filing quietly outside where they clustered in the entrance, exchanging shocked views, as uniformed police moved from group to group taking down names and addresses.

  I could see it all through the open door as I followed Hildreth and the others but it was as if I was walking through some nightmare, a numb unreality with the sensation that my ears were full of water and sound came through filtered as in a dream.

  ‘So,’ Hildreth began when we were all inside my office, ‘another staged bit of necroporn.’

  ‘But this one’s quite different,’ I said, not knowing that I was going to speak but as if I too were some kind of automaton whose button had been pressed.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There’s nothing of beauty. It’s grotesque, a mockery of death. Nothing redeemed, no voyage to the Blessed Isles.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Kish?’ The chairman turned on me angrily.

  ‘Go on, Alex.’ Hildreth held up his hand.

  ‘All the others, the ones designed by Stalbridge, that is, were an attempt to deny the ugliness of death, to put art and a kind of love or at least desire for the beautiful against it in some sort of ritual. This hasn’t any of that.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that the others were designed for a different market.’

  ‘If you want to put it like that.’

  ‘I don’t follow any of this,’ the chairman said. ‘I hope you don’t want to keep us hanging about here. Someone has to deal with this mess.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. We all have to deal with it in our different ways.’

  A girl I didn’t know appeared at the door. ‘Sergeant Thomas,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘The sergeant will take statements from you and then you’re free to go. Alex, you can come with me. Mr Kish,’ he turned back to the others, ‘is being a great help to us in our enquiries, providing the kind of background expertise we don’t have to hand on the force.’

  Obediently I followed him out. ‘Your chairman,’ he said, ‘strikes me as being out of the same mould as our super.’

  ‘You may have saved my job. He’s demanded my resignation.’

  ‘I think we need a drink. Where’s the nearest pub.’ We turned right along Victoria Avenue towards Prittlewell Church and the Blue Boar where I had sometimes gone for lunch in what seemed like another life.

  ‘Now then,’ Hildreth said when we were settled at a table with our drinks in the near empty saloon. ‘What did you mean back there? You do think this is different?’

  ‘It seemed obvious to me then. I suppose I’m not so sure now. This seems quite different in feeling, in tone almost. The people who set this up don’t have the same intention. There’s no underlying religious symbolism.’

  ‘So why have they done it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what it means or why.’

  ‘The other scenes were designed by that Professor Stalbridge, partly for the pictures they would make for the benefit of the Ganymede Society, and others with similar tastes. Hebophiles, as we call them in the unit, with a dash of necrophilia, all tastefully arranged. Then you say there’s some sort of religion mixed in. But what sort? Does that give us a clue.’

  ‘That may just have been Stalbridge’s private input, nothing to do with whoever is behind it all. Stalbridge called them “some people who play rough”. They must have been the ones who got him to do the designs. Then they had someone also quite skilled in a different way to set them up. This time they simply took the Aunt Sally figure away, dressed up the body in her clothes and put it in her place.’

  ‘There couldn’t be any little gold square involved either, like the others.’

  I’d been hoping that Hildreth wouldn’t bring the amulet into it. Now I mentally took a deep breath and said, ‘That’s of course because they’re all in my safe,’ I paused and took a deep breath, ‘along with the one Stalbridge sent me.’

  He put his pint down carefully. ‘What else have you been keeping from me Alex?’

  ‘I would have told you. But I thought you’d just laugh if I said they’d stolen my cat.’

  ‘Your cat?’

  ‘You see. That’s exactly what I was afraid of.’

  ‘How do you know he was stolen, that he didn’t just run away or get run over? Cats do.’

  ‘They sent me a note with some of his fur. Then they let him go and he found his way back.’

  ‘Where is he now, this Houdini of a cat?’

  ‘I keep him shut in.’

  ‘They were warning you off – is that it? And if so, this latest stunt could be directed at you in the same way.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Look at it like this. You agree this is different, that it isn’t done for the same purpose as before, the same market as I said, so what’s its purpose? To frighten you off. It’s a threat. Now you’ve told me about the cat it’s clear. They’ve seen you with me. Maybe they even followed you to Amsterdam. They wouldn’t have known we were meeting Beemsterboer but if they were keeping track of you they’d have seen that we went to the Dutch police headquarters. You’re in danger, Alex. What about your girlfriend, Dr Caistor?’

  ‘We haven’t been meeting recently. I thought it best.’

  ‘Alex, we may have to use you as bait, to draw them out. Would you be willing to help? You see, this isn’t just aimed at you but through you at all of us. They’ve got cocky and that may be their undoing. Beemsterboer thought there was nothing we could do but if they step outside their original activities, providing a little tasteful soft porn for kinky professors who’ll get all the references, then we may have them. They’ll make a m
istake.’

  ‘If you could prove they killed Jack…’

  ‘That trail’s gone cold. No, we need something new. Who knows, we may get something from forensics on this one. I must get back on the job. I’m afraid they’ll have made rather a mess of your exhibition.’

  I left him at the entrance to the Discovery Centre and went straight to my office without the courage to look in at the, no doubt, orderly chaos where ‘A Victorian Day at the Seaside’ should have been. Shutting the door I took the key from my desk and opened the safe. I had to be sure that the little bag holding the pieces from the amulet was still safely inside.

  Opening the drawstring neck, I shook the four thin pieces of gold and the coin into my hand. I’d never been one for crossing my fingers or not walking under ladders but now I felt again the same tremor of fear the prince and his grave goods had always provoked in me. I thought of Shakespeare’s curse on ‘the man who digs my bones’, and the so-called curse of Tutankhamun. It was a commonplace: the desire to lie quiet in the grave, in hope perhaps of a resurrection that would reverse the ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust’ grim dictum of a burial service. Had Lucy known she was dying? Had she been afraid? We never talked about it.

  The other animals were lucky not to have the burden of this consciousness, the real curse of Adam, the penalty for the knowledge of good and evil, or just knowledge. Yet even they mourn an absence, a loss. Now science gives us a new immortality! Our dust breaks down into its elements and is whirled about the world to be reincarnated. Transmigrate, in new life forms, satisfying all the old suggestions for life everlasting. But for our egos, the individual apprehension of ourselves, the biological unit, it isn’t enough. We still want to survive as an ‘I’, a ‘me’, subject and object, to outwit the extinction of that unique consciousness.

  We’ve invented art to try to combat our fear, to give permanence where there’s otherwise only mutability as the Elizabethans called it. Jesus hangs on the cross, beauty in death, like the sculpted figure of the dying Gaul. Even without a resurrection Jesus is immortal in paintings, in music and words; art and religion intertwined, something we can believe in without belief. Was that what the scenes Stalbridge set up had meant?