by Jason Foss
Doc Savage put aside her clipboard and held out a hand for the cake. Flint hurriedly explained the drama upstairs, whilst the three scientists regarded the cake with as much awe as if it were Piltdown Man’s last supper. None of them was more than temporarily shaken by Flint’s sudden demand.
‘So we’re looking for the same as last time?’ Savage said in her cold, clinical way.
‘More than likely.’
Flint stood regaining his breath whilst the trio of scientists passed the item from one to the other, not without scepticism.
‘If you have herbal poison in there really, you may find seeds or plant residues,’ Sasha suggested slowly, ‘and pollen might have got in as a by-product.’
‘Could you match it to a sample of the original blend?’
‘Just like a fingerprint. We do it all the time, but working on a different time-frame. We could compare a batch of pollen from two herb samples and determine whether they were gathered in a similar location.’
An idea was forming that was so perfect, that Flint could not remain in the laboratory another minute. ‘Brilliant. Could you compare them to those foxglove samples from Forest Farm?’
‘Sure.’
‘Today?’
‘What?’
‘This is crucial, believe me, guys. Gotta rush.’ Flint backed away from them. ‘Save at least half the cake, we will need it in court.’
An idea had taken root, grown and blossomed in the few moments Flint had spent in the lab. He had enough proof to tip the balance, enough evidence to turn the suspect into the accused.
Tyrone was lingering outside the lab, alerted by the rumour sweeping the department that Flint had tried to rape Sally in the ladies’ loo. His supervisor jabbed a finger towards him. ‘Okay, Biggles, get your car round the front in five minutes.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘You were right, I was wrong, dear sweet Monica Clewes has been stringing us along.’
‘Vikki said she was out on Halloween.’
‘Yes, and Monica made up some story about being threatened and mug, here, swallowed it. I didn’t swallow the cake, though, and that’s what counts. Right, I’m going to the janitor’s office, then we’re going to try Plan C.’
‘What’s Plan C, Doc?’
‘We’ll make it up as we go.’
In under five minutes they were moving into London traffic and had soon broken free of the city. Tyrone drove at manic speed and for once, Flint was urging him faster. The placid archaeologist was fired, at last, with anger, with confidence and with desperation. He had been tricked cruelly by Monica, he was certain. All along she had spied on him and diverted the course of the investigation, with the sole purpose of protecting the one Michelle had called The Protector. One more day, a few more pieces for the puzzle and then he would go to the police. No force – corrupt, idle, complacent or incompetent – would be able to ignore the truth.
Kingshaven was quiet that Monday afternoon. Even the dismal ritual of frantic Christmas shopping had eased as a miserable grey sky encouraged an early darkness and a bitter chill stalked the streets. Dropped at the end of The Passage, he jogged as far as the door of Naturella Wholefood Market. A sign was pinned to the inside.
‘Sorry — we’re closed.’
He felt the thrill of success. Monica Clewes was lurking somewhere, building herself an alibi. Flint walked a few yards further away from High Street to where The Passage opened out into a cul-de-sac. A pair of ill-fitting blue painted doors bore the name of the shop and an instruction not to park before them. He squinted through a crack into what could be a garage integral with the stone-built terrace. The white van was not inside. He returned to where Tyrone sat with the engine running and collected the bag of tools scrounged from the college janitor: a mallet, a hammer, a multi-drive screwdriver kit and a pair of chisels.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Doc,’ Tyrone said. ‘If you get caught, I wasn’t here, okay?’
‘Just keep an eye out and hoot that klaxon if she comes back.’
‘If I see her.’
No one was in The Passage. Flint had learned from mistakes made in the museum and came well-armed with a definite plan. The sturdy padlock was bypassed in a depressingly easy forty-five seconds as he forced the catch away from the blue garage door. Slipping inside, he pulled the door closed. The garage was lit only by slits of light working their way through the ill-fitting main door, so he snapped on a light switch to see a wooden floor with a trapdoor above his head. At the far end of the garage was a badly painted internal door and his gloved hands pulled at it twice to confirm this was locked.
The door was old, but the lock was a new Yale type. Flint took the hammer and with a dozen blows stove in the panel and released the lock from behind. The building was empty, he surmised, as no one had rushed to challenge the brutal entry. For a moment he considered what to do, armed with a crowbar and lump hammer if suddenly confronted by gentle Monica. He subconsciously adjusted his gloves, then advanced up the stairs.
A low-roofed loft surmounted the garage, lit by a pair of dusty windows front and back. Sacks of oatmeal, lentils, nuts and kidney beans were clustered around the trapdoor down into the garage. A block and tackle swinging from the overhead beam probably saved Monica much back-ache. Another door led towards the body of the shop and was unlocked.
He creaked the door open slowly to see a short landing, with a stair down to the shop, and familiar fragrances wafting upwards. Two doors led off the landing, both marked ‘Private’.
The first room was the bathroom, with an old white enamel suite, knickers hanging to dry, environmentally friendly loo cleaner and recycled toilet paper. Sharp odours were masked by a dangling potpourri but his interest in the room reached its end.
The second door, at the head of the stair, was locked. Cursing the woman’s paranoia, he checked carefully. Like the door in the garage, this had an original tumbler lock, but a new Yale had been fitted above. His old Kensington flat had the same mismatch of lock and door and the laminated college ID card had saved him much aggravation from his landlord. That day it saved Monica from losing another door. A minute of wriggling wrecked the card but the door eased open.
He could have guessed at the contents of Monica Clewes’ home, which was a tidier, more mature version of Michelle’s Dulwich flat. The walls were draped with badly executed oil paintings of trees, the floor covering was home-made rugs over polished wood and the air carried the scent of herbs. He moved quickly to identify four rooms: lounge, kitchen, bedroom, shrine.
Monica had never invited him upstairs for tea, and now he knew why. The shrine was a modified box-room, with a residual reek of incense. Its walls were blue-black, its ceiling was painted with a representation of the polar constellations and the floor was deep green, painted with a white pentagram. Ogham runes rambled about its periphery whilst a small stone altar bore a pair of pottery candlesticks. No horned goats or Satanic images dangled from hooks, so he knew that at least Monica had some rational system of beliefs.
He moved to the bedroom, checking under beds and rooting through drawers, making a token mess to appear to be a burglar. To enhance the effect, he pocketed a few pieces of costume jewellery. He felt no guilt, only outrage at how he had been tricked and used.
On the bedside table was a photograph of Him and Her. A gleaming Monica Clewes in smart ladies’ suit, beside a familiar tweed-jacketed figure who would not look out of place on the back cover of a poetry book. Flint picked up the silver frame and almost kissed it. R. Temple-Brooke, poet and puppet master, pictured next to the woman who did his dirty work. The bedroom had provided its plunder.
A desk stood in the corner of the lounge. One drawer was locked, but only briefly. He shook its contents on to the desk and dropped the diary and the address book into his bag.
Behind the desk were shelves of books, with a familiar range of occult tripe, plus many works which had to be rare finds. None of them appeared to be the accursed
De Nigris. The whole bottom row of the bookshelf consisted of hardback exercise books crammed with handwritten script, so Flint took a dozen, his bag now bulging with loot. At the end were a number of thick photographic albums, of the type with sticky pages. Quickly, he pulled one out, expecting a nest of family photographs and instead found postcards. Monica travelled the country and collected postcards. He stood each album on the table and scurried through the pages, hoping for the empty spaces. He found one, then another. Two of the albums were grabbed, causing his bag to overflow. He sacrificed a pair of the handwritten books to make room.
Finally, he entered the kitchen, which had a back window looking out on to a fire escape and empty washing lines. The shelves at the near end were a veritable alchemist’s workshop of dried herbs, and powders: atropa belladonna, Adonis vernalis, briony, foxglove, senna, hemp, everything bar newt’s eyes and bats’ wings. Monica Clewes would perhaps pick her herbs in a limited location. Overlooking the local marshland, perhaps. A clever laboratory might be able to match samples with those from his chocolate cake or Piers Plant’s stew.
Witch? Poisoner? Corrupter of the innocent? The more he discovered about the innocuous Monica Clewes, the more she frightened him. Flint knew he had spent so many evenings and days sitting beside death, idly chatting about travel or art. And she had sat and smiled and played her duplicitous game.
Taking a spoon from her sideboard, he put one scoop of the four most lethal herbs into separate sample bags, his hands trembling with anger as much as fear. Then he froze; he was not alone. He sensed company, movement. From the living room came the slow swish of paper slipping from a chair. Without time to rush for the stairs or to figure out how the back door opened, Flint acted on reflex, picked up his hammer and stood defiant.
Every witch needs a black cat, but this one was tabby. It stopped in the doorway, fixed him with yellow slit-eyes and hissed. Had Flint believed in the power of the familiar he would have fled. Instead, he lunged at the beast, which flashed off towards the landing and did not reappear.
His nerve had been broken, so quickly he followed the cat into the lounge. One last look round allowed him to spot the inevitable poetry volumes on her bookshelves, then with pulse rate increasing and bowels churning, he succumbed to the urge to leave.
Panting with excitement he moved rapidly, soon reaching the battered blue door again. A youth cycled by outside, then Flint slipped out of the door and carried his heavy bag into the open.
Three more witnesses walked past as he hurried to the rendezvous with Tyrone.
‘Success?’ Tyrone asked.
‘Ok, Wheels, hit it.’
Chapter 27
Vikki had been surprised to find the itinerant Doctor Flint on her doorstep that evening, more surprised to learn he was staying the night and stunned when he told her what was in the kitbag and how he had obtained it. Tyrone gave her no more than a wave from the seat of his car before he roared away towards London, shouting an obscure parting line that Flint would need lots of money to feed the animals.
After the barest of explanations, she knocked up fish fingers and chips for two, keeping one eye on what Flint was doing on the kitchen table. He was rooting through books stolen from Monica Clewes’ flat and describing them aloud.
Two were diaries written in code, the remaining handwritten books contained recipes for home-made concoctions or were do-it-yourself spell books. Vikki flicked the fish fingers over in the grill, then returned to gaze at the homespun occult armoury with fascinated disbelief.
Once dinner was served, and Vikki had apologised for its carbonised state, they started to flick through the postcard folders. One section encompassed a selection of Scottish views, mostly castles and monuments, but with one glaring void.
‘Isle of Skye?’ asked Flint.
‘Didn’t Mrs Gray get a card from Skye?’ Vikki realised. ‘So Monica sent the cards?’
‘It looks like it. She uses hyphens all the time, I looked at the Christmas card she sent me, with a message full of hyphens and strange little looping ‘g’s, just like on the cards.’
Monica had visited the Burrell Collection in Glasgow and filled two pages with their postcards. One was missing, presumed posted to Barbara. In the other folder, a tour of Wiltshire left another vacant space on the Salisbury page.
‘I suppose she could have posted these to a friend and asked them to repost them to you,’ Vikki said.
‘Easily. She might even have been the person faking those phone calls.’
Finishing the meal without complaint, Flint turned his skills towards the code, puzzling, jotting notes on his pad. Before the coffee had fully worked its way through the filter, he declared, ‘Child’s play. She’s using letter substitution.’
One minute later, he had a key and took pride in explaining it to Vikki.
‘She uses ‘s’ instead of T, q instead of ‘a’, what an amateur!’
Vikki watched fascinated as he exploded the code, then helped him fill in a table to decode the diary. The evening was spent composing a complete picture of Monica Clewes, woman, environmental campaigner, herbalist, witch and high priestess.
Just after nine o’clock, Flint closed the diary and closed his eyes. Vikki watched the way his brain visibly seemed to be ticking over.
‘You know, you surprised me,’ she said.
‘Me?’
‘Of course, you. Who else is there? You know when I first met you, we didn’t get on, did we?’
‘Not exactly.’ By the way he shuffled in his seat, he seemed to be apologising for his frostiness that first day. ‘Don’t you think I’m just another perpetual student living off the taxpayer?’
‘I did, but not anymore.’
‘Ah, my new image. This isn’t the real me.’
‘Yes it is. Except now, you’re not hiding behind a tatty jacket and protest badges. Losing the beard was a first class move.’
‘Glad the sacrifice was worthwhile. This whole episode has really chopped me up, don’t you know?’
‘I know. You liked Lucy, didn’t you?’
‘I would have liked her if I’d made the effort to get to know her.’
‘You’ve had a bad year,’ she said. ‘You lost your girlfriend... ‘
‘…Chrissie? No, we were just good friends. Still are, officially.’
‘What about that Irish girl?’
‘No comment, and before you mention Monica, that has been the worst twist of the knife…to find she’s the one been covering up for Lucy’s killer, whilst stringing me along.’
He looked around her at the kitchen clock. ‘Well, tomorrow is make or break day, which means that me and you should go and find a little hotel somewhere.’
She frowned, not understanding his intent. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘No funny business, honest,’ he pleaded, without too much sincerity. ‘My thinking is this. Dear Monica Clewes gets back to her shop tonight and finds what I’ve done. She will know who did it and she will tell her friends, at least one of whom is a practised arsonist.’
Vikki nodded in sympathy. ‘There’s a Travelodge about five minutes from here.’ Something was trying to wriggle free from the depths of her soul, but she squashed it. ‘They’ve got single rooms.’
*
Single rooms were vacated late in the morning, after Flint had spent some time on the telephone to Tyrone and called at his bank. Vikki drove him out of Kingshaven and into the flat marshland which ran parallel to the river as it turned into salty estuary.
From the outside, the Magpie was a promising country pub; huge, square and half-timbered, but inside it was a draughty and under-used place. In a desolate corner of a desolate corner of England, it solicited trade by a bold black signboard on the B road from Kingshaven to Eastport. Before noon, Vikki parked between the Spitfire TYR-1 and the Central College Archaeological Department Land Rover.
Inside the pub, nine students were doubling the lunchtime beer sales, and Flint immediately passed Tyrone a
bundle of notes to repay damage already done. He ordered a Coke, which spoiled his image, but kept his head clear for the afternoon.
Anthony ‘Ape’ Anderson regaled Vikki with his recent exploits. He had already enlightened the whole room by reciting the rules of the Australian Biscuit Game (which he had probably never played). Next he described how his Animals had raided Chelsea College in a vain attempt to steal their mascot.
‘We had a ransom note all done up from newsprint – three hundred pounds to our Rag Fund.’
He drained his beer. Ape had straggling black hair which dangled over puffy eyes, caused by playing wing forward in the first fifteen with gusto and violence. All seventeen stones of Bunny Beresford shocked the bar stool by his side.
‘Coke Doc?’ He passed the drink and regarded Flint as if he were an alien. ‘Sorry there’s not much change.’ He handed over the remnants of a twenty-pound note.
‘I’m driving,’ Flint muttered.
From his monogrammed briefcase, Tyrone drew a wallet of documents he had prepared, then summoned the others from the bar. Once the team were assembled around the table, Tyrone stood up and began his briefing by ceremoniously displaying a map and tapping it with a ruler.
‘Gentlemen, this is today’s target.’
Ape and his team murmured with interest as Tyrone let them know the final details of Plan C. He hammed up the role of mission co-ordinator and received applause when he had concluded the briefing. Tyrone bowed.
‘Are these kids reliable?’ Vikki whispered to Flint. ‘They’re all pissed as newts.’
‘Synchronise watches,’ Tyrone said. ‘At my call it will be one forty-seven.’
Ape fiddled with an enormous wristwatch, which presumably was shockproof. The others played the game, which was what they were good at. As Tyrone sat down, Flint stood up, passing him a handful of ten-pound notes. ‘Car keys, Tyrone. Time Vikki and I got going.’
Tyrone took the money and drew out the leather monogrammed fob.
‘Good hunting, Squadron Leader. Treat her like a lady.’
Flint and Vikki went out to the Spitfire. The day was cold but bright and Tyrone had travelled down with the hood folded back. Vikki climbed in the car, looking unsure of herself. ‘Tell me you’re sure what you’re doing?’