Not for the first time that morning, Harry found he could not think of a reply.
***
Callie was up early. She walked from the hotel to the university without an umbrella, enjoying the drizzle on her face and the way it darkened the yellow stone of Oxford’s revered buildings.
What she sought was in private possession. What should have been on public display or at least accessible to interested parties had been snaffled up and stashed in a private vault, the combination to which was known only to one person every generation. Callie was on her way to meet that person. She would extract the combination one way or another. She would open the vault. She would secure the object. Mother would be pleased.
And that was Callie’s motivation. She wanted her mother’s love.
But first things first.
The object. The second piece of the staff.
Callie entered the Bodleian. The man she was looking for - her quarry, as Mother would call him - was dozing in a chair. Mother’s intelligence was never flawed, planted in Callie’s mind during their last conversation.
The quarry was exactly what she expected. A crumpled mass of Tweed and unruly hair. Half-moon glasses were askew across his nose. A trickle of drool ran from his mouth and down the sleeve of the arm that was supporting his jowly head.
Quite the crusty old don, Callie thought. And yet, there was something about him, his age perhaps and the impression he gave, even in repose, of learnedness and cosy authority, stirred something deep within her. A memory of a story she had heard long, long ago. An old man. A guide and teacher.
A master.
Callie winced as pain like a headache stabbed her mind. Mother did not like her thinking of that man from the past.
Callie recovered herself and stood patiently waiting for the don to stir, willing his eyelids to flicker.
Eventually, they did but whether this was from Callie’s intense staring she could not determine. Any influence she might have was her mother’s doing; Callie had no delusions about her own abilities.
The don saw her standing over him. He jerked upright, wiped his wet chin, blinked, righted his spectacles and blinked again.
“Good morning,” Callie smiled. “Callista Bains. I have an appointment.”
“Ah, yes!” the don got to his feet, like a bag of washing coming to life. “New cleaner, are you?”
“Um, I’m afraid not. I’m researching Richard Burbage for my PhD.”
A light went on in the don’s head. Callie thought she had said some magic words at last.
“Yes, yes; of course. We shall repair to my office. We can talk freely there.”
He shuffled towards the exit. Callie followed, already feeling sorry for what she was going to do to this sweet old man, so like that other - Ouch! Her scalp pinched her skull again.
Must not think of the old man - Ouch!
“Something wrong, my dear?” the don paused at the door to his office.
“Bit of a headache,” Callie tried to smile through her pain.
“We can postpone, if you like?”
“No!” Callie snapped. “I mean, I have deadlines. My supervising tutor...”
“If they give you any trouble, my dear, you just refer them to me!” The don patted her hand and unlocked the door. Callie followed him inside. Poor old soul.
His undergraduates were going to miss him.
Five.
Hank Brownlow put in a call from his London hotel to Kipper. The inspector told him there were no further developments from the museum robbery of the night before. The security guards were all clueless and the CCTV footage was coming up blank.
Brownlow was at once pleased and frustrated. Pleased because it meant Kipper had found nothing to link him to the theft - that fool of a security guard hadn’t blabbed; the bribe must have been adequate - and frustrated because it meant he was already a piece of the puzzle short. Added to that, he didn’t have a lid with a helpful picture as a guide.
Perhaps one piece of the staff would be enough to build a series around. One thing was certain: Brownlow couldn’t waste any time. He was never a quitter and hated delays. He would just have to follow the next lead before whoever it was beat him to the second piece as well.
The question remained: Who in bright blue fuckery was also after the staff?
And why?
A rival historian - Brownlow faced many critics, whom he dismissed as envious wannabes - Was one of them responsible? Or a fellow academic perhaps? Someone mounting their own sensationalist academic investigation, or someone who would be content in sabotaging Brownlow’s?
He got through to Isaac.
“Organise me a cab to Oxford,” he barked.
“But that’s miles!” the agent protested, thinking of the expense of such an extravagance. “Besides isn’t that Janine’s job?”
Janine!
The girl was a thorn in Brownlow’s ball bag. She had yet to arrive in London having inconveniently missed the plane from the States, but that had been a week ago. Surely, the dumb girl could have managed to book another flight in a week! But this was Janine; the same Janine who had set fire to her own hair with a sandwich toaster. Nothing about Janine could surprise Brownlow. He was longing to fire her and get someone who could actually do the job, but Janine was the niece or the goddaughter or the whatever-the-fuck she was of one of the network’s top executives. Brownlow could no more fire her than cut off his own private parts. He suspected his first series had only been commissioned with the proviso that he gave the girl some work experience. Brownlow had agreed- how could he not? - believing he’d be lumbered with her for two weeks tops. And now, six years down the road and here she was (or wasn’t) still more trouble than she was worth.
He tried Janine on his speed dial.
“The number you have called is unavailable...”
Fuck, shit, piss!
He would have to arrange his own transport.
He rang down to Reception and asked a helpful young woman to book him the cab.
***
The ground in Bancroft Gardens was saturated from the night before. Under a grey morning sky, flower baskets hanging from lampposts tried to inject spots of colour into the day. Ariel kept pausing to admire every petal, every leaf. Harry suspected this was merely a delaying tactic, but Harry would not be swayed. He was taking the weirdo back to the river and leaving him where he found him, and that was that. Someone somewhere must be looking for him, must be aware there was an empty bed in a halfway house somewhere, an empty seat in a special bus.
“Will you get a move on?” Harry urged.
“Master?”
“And stop calling me that! Hurry up.”
It was still early, too early for tourists. A few locals were strolling with dogs and a couple of barges were setting up shop for the day. There was no rush. It was too soon after breakfast and too murky a morning for anyone to want ice cream.
“This place is much altered,” Ariel looked around. “And so the world is. Even the river - how ordered it all looks!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry wasn’t interested. “Listen, you can hang onto the clothes until you get sorted. Perhaps someone can send them back to me. A nurse or whatever.”
“Master?”
They had reached the spot, midway between the theatre and the bridge. Harry came to a stop. There was no one around. What had he been expecting? A search party? Frantic faces handing out flyers?
“Well, this is it, then. You just wait here and - Well, I’m sure someone will be along soon.”
Doubt flickered across Ariel’s face. His brow dipped in a frown. “We are to be parted, Master? Have I displeased you? Have I given you cause to spurn me?”
“Look; just stop with this Master shit, okay? You have mistaken me for someone
else and that’s putting it mildly. You’re clearly deluded or round the bloody twist or something. You need help that I’m not qualified to give you.”
“You do not like me, Master?”
“It’s not a question of what I like or don’t like; it’s...” Harry’s voice trailed off. He made a show of checking his wristwatch. “I’d better be off. Things to do before my shift. All the best, though, eh? I hope you get better soon.”
He turned his back. He felt terrible. But really it’s not my problem, he told himself. These people shouldn’t be allowed to roam free. They need specialist care. They need -
He remembered his own brush with mental health problems. The months strung out on pills when his thoughts were all cotton wool and his feelings distant, like faded photographs of someone he vaguely recognised.
Damn it!
He turned back. The least he could do was wait for a bit, not leave the poor sod on his own.
But of the poor sod there was no sign. The river bank was deserted. Even the ducks and swans were absent.
“Um - Ariel?” Harry called out and instantly felt foolish.
Then he saw the clothes he had loaned him at the water’s edge, neatly folded and stacked, even though only a couple of seconds had passed.
Harry picked up the clothes, feeling distinctly uneasy. What on Earth was going on?
His phone rang, making him jump. It was Mary from work.
“Morning, Harry. Change of plan. Afternoon tours as per, but could you do this evening’s ghost walk as well? Brian’s called in sick and I’m desperate.”
“Hmm,” said Harry. Mary took this as confirmation.
“Thanks, petal. See you later.”
More than a little dazed, Harry went home. At least Olly was out running or jogging or turning cartwheels or whatever he was out doing, meaning Harry could sit on a stool at the kitchen table and stare blankly into space without interruption.
***
“The actor Richard Burbage - chuck in his dates, here - created most of Shakespeare’s leading male roles.”
“What’s that, mate? Visiting, are you? Famous friends?”
Hank Brownlow tore his attention away from his Dictaphone to give the cab driver a withering look. “I’m working, if you don’t mind,” he snapped.
The cab driver pulled a face. “Soz, like. Only so am I. Bit of a chinwag with the fares.”
“Well, don’t.”
The cab driver grimaced in the rear view mirror but Brownlow had already dismissed him from his attention. He held the recorder to his chin and tried to reboard his train of thought. “Um, reel off a list of the parts, Macbeth, Hamlet, and so forth, ending with ‘and of course, Prospero’...
“What I’m hoping to uncover in these programmes is the actual staff Burbage used in that first performance of The Tempest. It is believed - or, should I say: I believe... I am of the belief... It seems likely to me... Whatever... it is believed that the staff was more than a stage prop. I hope to uncover evidence that the staff belonged to the elusive playwright himself, and that William Shakespeare the greatest name in world literature was in fact a... wizard - No, sounds dumb when I say it like that. A - a - sorcerer? A magus... Note to self: check the thesaurus.”
“Hoi, mate. Soz for overhearing but if it’s Shakespeare you’re after it’s Stratford you want, not Oxford.”
“What?”
“Just saying, if it’s Shakespeare you want, you want to be in Stratford not Oxford. It’s a bit farther but I can take you.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business and your mind on the road.”
The cab driver pulled another face.
“I’ve had ’em all in here,” he went on, “actors, writers, you name it. Might have had your mate as well. What was his name?”
“Listen, buddy; I doubt you will have had the great Elizabethan actor Richard Burbage in your shitty cab. He’s been dead for four hundred years.”
“Oh. Well, probably not then.”
A few miles passed under the wheels in silence. Brownlow found he couldn’t concentrate on his notes. The cab driver had put him off. He checked his phone again and again. Still no word from the useless Janine. And he couldn’t fire her! It was ridiculous. He would just have to make things so unpleasant for her that she would tender her resignation. That way, her dear daddy or uncle or whoever-the-fuck wouldn’t take umbrage. Unless she blabbed... Oh, why was everything so hard? All Brownlow wanted to do was write his books and make his TV shows and rake in the money. Why did the world conspire against his humble ambitions?
The phone rang. Brownlow snatched it up and bellowed into it. It continued to ring. It dawned on him that he was shouting into the Dictaphone. He threw it aside and grabbed the phone. Janine’s name was flashing on the screen. About fucking time!
“About fucking time!” he roared.
“Mr Brownlow? Mr Hank Brownlow?”
It wasn’t Janine. It was a man’s voice.
“Um, yeah; who is this?”
“Detective Sergeant Jenkins, Oxfordshire Police.”
“Um, what?”
“Your assistant, a Miss Janine Goldman?”
“Yes. What’s happened?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”
“What, wait? You said Oxfordshire Police?”
“Yes.”
“I’m heading that way myself.”
“Oh, really. Well, in that case, we shall meet you at the hospital.”
“Well, is she ok? Janine?” Brownlow’s mind was racing. If something had happened to Janine - and it seemed that something had indeed happened to Janine - while she was doing stuff for work, her dear daddy or uncle or whoever-the-fuck wouldn’t be best pleased.
“We’ll explain, as much as we can explain, when you get here, Mr Brownlow.”
“But is she ok? Is she going to be all right, damn it?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Brownlow. Miss Goldman is dead.”
Six.
The don patted his pockets wondering in which one he kept his house keys. For a moment, he had a flash of panic: what if he had left the keys in his office? He couldn’t go back - his previous host would most probably have been discovered. Oh, why had he left her where she could so easily be found?
Not your fault, he told himself. The previous host hadn’t possessed great intelligence. She was certainly not Oxbridge material. She hadn’t thought ahead. She hadn’t thought beyond securing the next host. The privacy of the office had been adequate for the transfer but she had not thought of concealing the husk of what she was about to evacuate.
He was glad to be rid of her and the limiting capacity of her brain. Now ensconced in an Oxford don, no less, he was supposedly residing in one of the greatest minds in the country.
If only he could remember what he had done with his keys.
The briefcase!
He pulled open the battered leather bag and delved inside. Forgotten sandwiches squished under his fingers. Incomplete crossword puzzles torn from library copies of daily newspapers crumpled in his grasp. A notebook bulging with papers and envelopes. The last page of some undergraduate’s dissertation on John Donne’s relevance in the digital age.
At last, the wrinkled fingers closed around a bunch of keys. He pulled them out, allowing the briefcase to fall to the flagstones. Trial and error led his liver-spotted hands to select the correct key on the fifth attempt and he pushed his way into his campus flat. Like his office, it was dominated by books. He couldn’t remember what colour the walls were and frankly, he wasn’t interested. Who wants to look at walls when there are so many books in the world?
He forced himself to focus. He had a task and this dithering brain wasn’t proving easy to drive. The body was reasonably spry for its advanced age.
A little stooped, perhaps, with the shoulders hunched forwards from decades of poring over the pages of lofty tomes... And there I go again, drifting off. Focus, you old fool!
He waddled through the front room to his study where the infestation of books was even worse - or better, depending on your point of view. A mountain of books and papers had for its foothills, a sturdy oak desk. The old man shuffled around it, taking care not to dislodge towers of books with his elbows. Now...which drawer?
He paused to think. The host didn’t know, the blithering old fool. He tried each drawer in turn. Taped to the underside of the lowest was an envelope. The envelope came away easily; the tape was brittle and had lost most of its adhesive properties over time. The old man’s fingers, curling into arthritic hooks, fumbled with the flap. He withdrew a slip of paper. There was a sequence of numbers in fading ink. He peered at it with and without his half-moon spectacles. He reached to turn on the desk lamp and sent a stack of papers cascading to the carpet. Bugger it; Mrs Bedser could sort that out when she came to ‘do’.
Mrs Bedser... A candidate for the next stage of the journey perhaps?
When was she due in? Not until Thursday. Botheration! He couldn’t hang around until Thursday. He had to keep moving. Time was of the essence.
Oh, how he wished he’d kept hold of the previous body’s mobile telephone! It contained notes and messages from her cantankerous employer that had proved invaluable in keeping one step ahead of the American charlatan.
But of course, once the change had been made from girl to old man, there had been the usual disorientation before he became acclimatised. And, of course, the old man’s wetware was disappointing and cumbersome. He might have a head full of knowledge but he was a dozy old sod. Sad, really, how the human mind deteriorates. The body might survive well into advanced years but the mind could fog, or parts of it could shut down like rooms in a stately home, shut off from occupation in a bid to preserve energy to occupy the rest of the building.
Where The Bee Sucks Page 4