‘Couldn’t ’ear you because of this stupid mask,’ whispered Doll Pocket into Malinferno’s jackal ear, her dulcet tones melting with the heat. ‘And I’m sweating like a pig under it.’
‘I’ve told you before, Hathor is a cow god not a pig, hence the horns. Now let’s get on with this farrago.’
The unravelling of the bandaged mummy had then proceeded well, if a little drily. Malinferno had done his best to perform like a fairground barker, while still slaking his own genuine curiosity about the strange means of burial as practised by the ancient Egyptians. In fact, he had even managed, as he often did, to sneak several funerary souvenirs into the pocket of his jacket as he was exposing the leathery visage of the long-dead Egyptian to the general gaze. He did it not for their intrinsic value, of course – though he had no doubt he could shift them for a tidy sum on the burgeoning antiquities market – but to further his own understanding of ancient Egypt.
He hoped to leave the tedious soiree as soon as his part in it was effected, and carry on with the real reason for his presence on the hill. But he knew his employer expected more. As those she had invited craned eagerly over the large dining table that held the dusty and rather smelly remains of her investment, she reflected on the success of the evening. All in all it had gone well, though she wished that the man she had engaged – this Italian professor with an unpronounceable name – had conducted the event with a little less scholarly sobriety, and a little more élan. His naked assistant had promised well, but the unrolling had been accompanied with too much talk.
‘Professor Ma . . . Malapropos . . .’ screeched the duchess, taking Malinferno’s arm in a vicelike grip. She obviously could not even remember his name, but was determined to get full value from his celebrated, albeit bogus, erudition. ‘You must talk to my dear friend the Honourable Sir Ralph St Germans about the Pyramids and suchlike. He’s the Member of Parliament for . . . err . . .’ She flapped her hand to denote some remote rotten borough that was represented by this august Member. ‘He is fearfully keen on this Egyptian thing, and is acquiring all sorts of impedimenta from . . . well, from Egyptia, I suppose.’
She steered him towards an egregiously overweight, and obviously inebriated gentleman, who was using the edge of Malinferno’s erstwhile mortuary slab to steady his wavering bulk. The small items from the mummy that were the professor’s illicit bonus were burning a hole in Malinferno’s pocket. But there was nothing to be done but whisk a bumper of red wine from a passing tray, and sing for his supper. He toasted the noble Member of Parliament, and enquired after his collection of artefacts, hoping the man wasn’t expert enough on Egyptology to unmask him as a charlatan. Fortunately, St Germans chose that moment to pass out from an excess of alcohol, slumping heavily across the table and landing on Doll’s generous bosom.
It had only been a week earlier that Malinferno had lifted his head reluctantly from that very bosom and sighed.
‘I have to get out of London, Doll. What if I am found out? I will be hanged along with the others.’
The reason for his fears had to do with Malinferno’s soft spot for the plight of the masses, coming as he did himself from humble beginnings. After old King George had died in January of that year – 1820 – the rumblings of the radicals got louder as the situation of the working poor got worse. Joe – he hated his proper name of Giuseppe – often took himself off to the Marylebone Union Reading Society, and filled his head with radical idealism. Doll was more down to earth, and didn’t think much could be done other than looking after number one. They rowed about it off and on.
‘We, who are able to look after ourselves, must help the poor.’
Joe’s pronouncement astonished Doll, bearing in mind they were themselves down to their last few coppers. And the meal on the table in Joe’s shabby lodgings in Creechurch Lane, London, was no more than an umble pie of offal, washed down with beer. She opened her arms to encompass their meagre feast.
‘Joe, we are the poor, as things stand. I shall have to troll the streets if we are to pay your landlady the rent for even last month.’
Malinferno’s face was set in a mask of defiance. He had first met Doll Pocket in Madam de Trou’s bawdy house in Petticoat Lane. He had been astonished by both her quick mind, and her obviously pulchritudinous assets. Instead of exploiting those assets as intended, he had spent the night teaching her all he knew about Egyptology. She had absorbed it like a sponge. They had forgotten all about the reason why he had paid the madam in good gold coin. And now that they were good friends, he didn’t want Doll to return to her former trade.
‘No. If the worst comes to the worst, you can become an actress. I know Mr Saunders, the manager of the New Theatre in Tottenham Street. He will find you a position.’
Doll pulled a face. ‘An actress? Why should I want to do that? They have the same reputation as a whore, and earn less than half the money.’
‘At least that is the lesser of two evils.’ Malinferno hesitated a moment. He was trying somehow to get round to telling her the truth about the rent. Finally, he decided he had better just come out and say it. ‘And it’s not one month we owe but three.’
Doll pushed her rickety chair away from the table, and put her hands on her hips in a pose of outrage.
‘But I gave you the money for the other month. It was the last of my savings.’
‘I know. But Arthur wanted some funds and I—’
‘You gave it all to Arthur Thistlewood?’
By now, Doll was stomping up and down their tiny room, causing the chipped crockery on the table to rattle. Malinferno steadied the table and grinned.
‘You know, you would make a wonderful actress. They are putting on The Taming of the Shrew at the Theatre Royal.’
Doll growled, and grabbed one of the plates from off the table. She only stopped herself from throwing it at Joe, when he yelled a warning.
‘Careful, Doll, we’ve got only two plates left. If that one goes, we will have to share our repasts like two dogs fighting over the same bowl.’
She contented herself with another growl, and sat back on her chair abruptly. It creaked ominously under her. She waved her hand at Malinferno dismissively.
‘Go and plot treason with Thistlewood. That’s all you are good for, you and the Spendthrift Philanderers.’
‘Spencean Philanthropists,’ Malinferno corrected her. ‘We follow the ideas of Thomas Spence. Anyway, it’s no good me going to the meeting house today. They are meeting up somewhere else, but I am not in on the secret of what’s afoot.’
Doll snorted with derision. ‘You are not all that important to them, then. Now they have your money. Where are they meeting, anyway?’
Malinferno tossed his head, as though his not being in on the secret meeting mattered not at all to him.
‘Somewhere near Grosvenor Square. Cato Street, I think he said.’
Later, when the news came out of the murderous conspiracy led by Thistlewood, Malinferno was glad he had been excluded. After the conspirators were arrested in a pitched battle in the Cato Street hayloft, it emerged that the Spencean Philanthropists had plotted to kill every single cabinet minister at a dinner hosted by Lord Harrowby. Malinferno, pale and shaken, had refused to leave his lodgings in Creechurch Lane for days. He spent his time peering cautiously out of the dusty window on the first floor, imagining every passer-by was a Bow Street runner come to arrest him for treason. Doll scoffed at his worries, but Joe would not be reassured.
‘George Edwards was an agent provocateur acting for the government, and I spoke to him at a meeting once. He might remember me.’
‘Joe, it’s been weeks since the others were arrested. Has anyone mentioned your name? No.’
Malinferno fingered his damp linen collar nervously. ‘Even so, they say Thistlewood and the others will be hanged.’
He shrank back from the window, where he had been standing, and slumped down on the lumpy bed he shared with Doll. She sighed, and went off to the chop house to fetch
in some food, as she had done since the Cato Street Conspiracy had been exposed.
When in April the verdict was reached on those who had refused to turn king’s evidence, Brunt, Davidson, Ings, Thistlewood and Tidd – all known to Malinferno – were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. And though their sentences were later commuted to merely hanging, a deed that took place in May, Malinferno decided it was time to sneak away from London for a while. He wondered if his friend Bromhead had anything for him to do that would remove him from the febrile atmosphere of the capital.
‘Actually, Giuseppe, I do, as it happens.’
Augustus Bromhead was a strange cove to look at. He was very short of stature, standing at less than five feet tall, but his head was that of a much bigger man. It topped his tiny body like the bulbous head of a tadpole, an effect that was emphasised by the unruly thatch of grey hair and goatee beard he favoured. But he was a giant of a man when it came to intellect and knowledge in his chosen field. Bromhead was an antiquarian of repute, and what he didn’t know about King Arthur and all things pertaining to the glorious history of the British Isles was not worth knowing.
He swivelled on the high stool where he perched at his study table, and penetrated his friend Malinferno with a firm gaze. The young man had rushed into his study, hidden high under the eaves of Bromhead’s rickety house in Bermondsey, with a look about him that suggested the devil was on his tail. Which did not surprise him, as Malinferno was often getting into scrapes. He had been surprised, however, by the young man’s earnest request for a commission that might take him out of London. He knew Malinferno was obsessed with this new craze for all things Egyptian, set in motion by old Nappy Bonaparte. Why all that Egyptian stuff should matter to an Englishman, Bromhead could not fathom. But then, Malinferno was half Italian, so there was no understanding his mind. He addressed his visitor again, taking care to use his proper name, which he knew irritated Joe Malinferno beyond measure.
‘But first tell me, Giuseppe, why you want to assist me, when you have nothing but scorn for my researches.’
The pale-faced Malinferno shook his head vigorously, wide-eyed with denial.
‘No, no, Augustus, old friend. I have nothing but respect for your studies of English history. Did I not help you with your examination of King Arthur’s bones?’
Bromhead snorted. ‘Indeed you did, and nearly lost them to body-snatchers and anatomists in the process. I will not trust you with such precious items in the future. However, there is an excavation I want carried out, which I am unable to supervise myself.’
Malinferno groaned. ‘Not more old bones? Arthur’s bones only got me into trouble, and I am trying to avoid trouble at the moment.’
Bromhead squinted at Malinferno over his little, gold-rimmed spectacles, the light from the fire turning his gaze red. But the young man would not supply any further information about the fix he was obviously in. Bromhead smiled secretively.
‘No, it is not bones this time.’ He paused dramatically. ‘It is treasure.’
Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This was more like it – he liked the idea of digging up treasure.
‘Where is this treasure?’
‘In a moment. First, take a look at this. It is a map drawn up many years ago by Christopher Hawkins of Bath. I found it with the text of a poem he had written about Arthur. An awful poem, by the way.’
Bromhead reached across his desk, and pushed over to Malinferno an old crackly parchment. When he looked at it, he saw an outline of what looked like an island with a series of crosses and arrows marked on it. Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This had all the hallmarks of a treasure map. He looked enquiringly at Bromhead.
‘Where is this island?’
‘Island? It is Solsbury Hill, near Bath.’
Malinferno had fretted for days about how to get to Bath in order to launch his treasure hunt on nearby Solsbury Hill. With no money to get him down there, he was stuck in London despite Augustus’ offer. Then a chance meeting with Thomas Elder as he wandered disconsolately around the British Museum had given him part of the solution. A commission in Bath to unroll an Egyptian mummy turned up, something he had done before for the fashionable élite. And it gave him the chance to take Doll with him too. They already had a good act with which to impress their wealthy clients. The trip to Bath was assured, and the dangers of London could be left behind.
Unfortunately, when they got to Bath, he found his reward – their reward – had proved niggardly. The three guineas paid by the duchess would still not be enough to bankroll Bromhead’s project.
‘I don’t know how we are going to get to the site with all the tools we need. The duchess is very sparing with her advance remuneration.’
He jangled the gold coins in his pocket, and looked at Doll. She was draped – dressed was too generous a word to use – in the light muslin shift that she was to wear as Hathor. It did little to hide her charms, which was all to the point. She had been promenading in Bath before returning to the tiny attic room she shared with Malinferno in Cheap Street. He could not help but wonder what the experience had done for the popinjays who frequented the resort. He could imagine the effect of the light from the flaming torchères that lit the Roman baths as they played on her body. Lit from behind, Doll would have appeared naked. An effect she meant to cultivate, as they needed a gullible sponsor for the enterprise that had really brought them to Bath. Apparently, despite a night of debauchery, no more money had been forthcoming.
He looked at the ravishing form of Doll Pocket again, and sighed. But then a thought occurred to him, and he reached over to the bed. Eagerly, he extracted from the deep pocket of his greatcoat two of his most treasured possessions and laid them on the baize-covered card table they were using as both dining and occasional table. He had purloined both items when doing some cleaning work for Thomas Elder at the BM. They had to be worth something.
The scarab beetle glimmered blood red in the evening light that filtered through the dusty windowpanes. But despite its beauty, Malinferno’s gaze was drawn instead to the papyrus scroll. Cautiously, he unrolled it, praying that it would not crack into fragments. He was in luck. The ancient fragment opened up to reveal a glorious, multi-coloured spectacle of hieroglyphs. As yet, no scholar had been able to decipher these antique symbols, but Malinferno was determined he would be the one to do so. He had heard of a Frenchman called Champollion who had made some headway. But he had been engulfed in the troubles in France, and no one had heard of him for a while. In England, Thomas Young had toiled for years only to decipher one word. The name – Ptolemy. Malinferno was scornful of his efforts, and knew a golden prize could be in the grasp of the first man to unravel the mystery of the Egyptian writing. He would be that man, and would make a fortune lecturing to the wealthy. Who would then pay far more to hear him than the few paltry guineas he was getting from the duchess.
He reverently touched the surface of the scroll with his fingertips, marvelling at the finely wrought images. But was each symbol a word or a letter? That was the problem.
‘Gawd. I’nt it gorgeous.’
Malinferno started from his reverie, and looked over his shoulder. Doll was tired and her accent was slipping again. She was peering over his shoulder, and her ample bosom, artfully lifted, protruded just at his eye level. It was a beautiful sight to behold.
‘Oh, yes it is, Doll.’
Doll Pocket’s bolstered charms often made a lustful satyr of Joe Malinferno. He licked his lips, as he surveyed Doll’s figure. She barely came to his shoulder, but then he was over six feet tall himself. And her blonde curls were fixed in the latest fashion, with a golden bandeau round them holding in place a frothy feather. A severe band of the same colour drew in her thin muslin dress just below her rounded bosom, emphasising its shape. The dress draped seductively over her well-formed hips, falling to her tiny, slippered feet. Despite the rather rumpled nature of her dress, and her bleary, red-rimmed eyes, which spoke of an unsettled night for Doll, the who
le effect was of half-concealed voluptuousness. Malinferno dragged his eyes from her with reluctance, looking once again at the papyrus.
‘Yes. It is a beautiful thing, is it not.’
Doll snorted contemptuously, and yawned, affording Malinferno a good view of her tonsils.
‘Nah. Not that bit of gaudy paper. This.’ She leaned forward, pressing her bosom carelessly against him, and scooped up the little ruby scarab. ‘Can I have it?’
‘No, you can’t.’ Malinferno smiled wryly. ‘Though it would match the colour of your eyes perfectly today.’
Doll pulled a face, and hissed at him cattily. But she did retreat to the oval ormolu mirror that hung over the unlit fireplace.
‘Lor’, I do look bad, don’t I?’ She pulled one bleary eyelid down, and examined the mottled orb thus revealed. She decided it was not a pretty sight, and turned away from the unpleasant reflection. ‘Only it’s not my fault. I was up till all hours with Lord Bywater . . . or was it Lord Byworth?’
‘Could it have been Lord Byron?’ Malinferno offered, not a modicum pleased with his ready wit so late at night. The thought of Doll cavorting with the mad, bad poet was a delectable picture.
‘Yeah, that’s it. Lord Byron.’
Malinferno hooted with laughter.
‘I think not, Doll. The audacious poet of that name has been abroad for a good few years. I believe he is now in Ravenna, not Bath, and good luck to him.’
Doll’s features flushed, giving her pale cheeks a more rosy hue.
‘The bastard. He said he was Lord Byron, and even dashed off a poem for me. I have it in my reticule.’
She dug around in her little bag for a while, finally giving up the hunt when the piece of paper refused to be found.
‘Sod it, I must have lost it. Well, if he wasn’t Byron, then the ode wasn’t worth the paper it was written on anyway.’
She hawked and coughed in a most unladylike manner, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
‘Come to think of it, the wine he gave me was like sheep’s piss too. But the point of the story is that whoever he was, he skipped without paying while I was kipping. Result was, me getting back home with no money, and only your lovely self for company.’
Hill of Bones Page 31