The British parliament observed a minute’s silence in Sir Kenneth Mullins’ memory. Respectfully, the opposition benches withheld comment on the circumstances of his death. That debate came later. The naming of the frogs and the connection to Mullins’ death was a heated topic of discussion, polarizing factions within both houses. Some members recommended Sir Timothy and his cohorts be jailed, for surely Mullins’ hand had been forced. He was, after all, an academic of rare poise and impeccable stock, the innocent thespian in an unprecedented tragedy.
The Hercules docked at Calais after struggling across the channel. Darkness descended on the grey port as three carriages were loaded for the journey to Paris. The palace of Louis XIV beckoned and the wave of controversy sweeping London would soon crash upon the shores of France.
20
The first musket ball chipped a corner of the ornament, ricocheting into a velvet curtain at the back of the stage and dropping to the wooden floorboards with a soft knock. The ornament toppled down the lectern where Sir Timothy trapped it.
The second musket ball punched through his teeth and palate, lodging in his brain. He slumped to the floor, blood dribbling from his mouth.
Warren Coucher threw both muskets off the balcony and in the ensuing pandemonium, escaped out the palace grounds into the surrounding forest.
A cloud of gunpowder smoke hung above the crowd as Cantwell and Dixon rushed to Sir Timothy’s side, but he was already dead. Cantwell took all three ornaments and shoved them back into the crocodile-skin case, closing the lid to trap the curse. Running from the palace he scanned the grounds as far as the oil lamps threw their feeble light. A small boy tapped him on the thigh and pointed at a gap in a wall.
Cantwell dashed into the night, following a path winding deep through the trees.
Without warning a forearm clamped across his neck, choking him, stifling a cry. He reached back with one hand, driving a thumb into an eye, popping it like a grape. The attacker relinquished his hold and Cantwell kicked out his legs, knocking him to the ground where he pinned him with a knee against his chest. The man wailed pitifully, clutching at his useless socket.
‘Please don’t kill me, I will tell you everything.’
Cantwell struggled to regain his breath. With cord from his pocket, he bound the man’s wrists behind his back, hoisted him up and wordlessly led him away.
Cantwell prodded his prisoner out of the forest into a scene reminiscent of the Ballard Theatre where guests were filing prematurely from the hall into carriages to bear them home.
Scanlan stood holding the crocodile-skin case. Webster was stony-faced with tears running down his cheeks. Both their wives were in genuine distress. Three burly policemen were about to enter the palace when they spotted Cantwell escorting the man.
‘I believe this guard is responsible for shooting Sir Timothy,’ Cantwell said.
A policeman smelled sulphur as he addressed the man with the mangled eye.
‘What is your name?’
‘It was him,’ the man yelled, pointing at Vincent Scanlan walking toward the palace.
Scanlan pretended not to hear.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the policeman called out.
Scanlan continued on for no one had spoken his name.
‘Vincent,’ Cantwell shouted.
Scanlan stopped as though his attention was caught for the first time. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and turned around, disguising his unease with a bemused look.
‘What is it, Geoffrey?’
Before Cantwell answered, the man again pointed directly at Scanlan.
‘It was him that put me up to it, paid me handsomely and said my soul would rest with God for all eternity.’
Scanlan, unable to stop the flush of panic in his chest, denied the accusations, trying to stay calm.
‘I have never laid eyes on this man and have no idea what he is talking about.’ A bead of sweat slipped down the nape of his neck.
‘I can prove he is lying. If you free my hands I will show you,’ the man said.
The inspector pulled a knife from his hip and cut the cord binding the man’s wrists.
‘The proof is in my pockets and I have no weapons.’
The inspector took him at his word. Virginia Scanlan thought it all a horrible mistake as Vincent shook his head in mock disbelief.
From his trouser pocket the man withdrew a thick roll of notes, a small fortune in English pounds. Scanlan remained as impassive as his thumping heart would allow.
‘Can you answer these claims?’ the inspector said to Scanlan.
‘Those notes could have come from anywhere. I know nothing about them,’ Scanlan said.
Dixon noticed Scanlan flicking repeatedly at the latch on the crocodile-skin case.
‘Perhaps this might convince you,’ the man said.
From his jacket, he pulled six silver coins, each stamped with an image of Caesar’s head.
Scanlan stood indignant, still flicking at the latch, and now everyone was aware of it except Scanlan himself.
‘There should be a seventh coin here somewhere.’
He held it up for all to see; the unmistakable denarius from the tomb in Nazareth.
Scanlan was drowning fast.
‘I must have been robbed. As a palace guard, he had the opportunity to slip into our quarters while we were at lunch.’
‘You are familiar with these coins, Mr Cantwell?’ the inspector said.
‘One is from a tomb I excavated in the Holy Land,’ Cantwell said.
‘What is your name?’ the inspector said to Scanlan.
‘Vincent Scanlan.’
‘Mr Scanlan, I find it a point of interest this palace guard identified you without hesitation.’
‘He did pass us in the corridor outside our suite. My dear wife Virginia will vouch for that. I bade him good morning as we headed to lunch,’ Scanlan said.
‘Do you recall seeing this man, Mrs Scanlan?’ the inspector said.
‘Oh yes,’ she said and without thinking, added, ‘I remember him talking to Vincent outside the library.’
‘Excuse Virginia, I fear she has had too much champagne. She is mistaken,’ Vincent said.
Virginia barely contained her anger. ‘I beg your pardon, Vincent, but you know I’ve had nothing to drink.’
The couple quickly sunk into a quicksand of conflicting arguments. The inspector raised an eyebrow and Cantwell detected a hint of amusement on his face. Scanlan shifted uneasily.
‘Since you have no firm evidence linking me with this man and his ridiculous accusations, my wife and I will retire to our quarters for the evening. Please excuse us.’
‘You will do nothing of the sort, Mr Scanlan. I have enough information to suggest you know something about this terrible incident. I need to question you further. You can come quietly or be manacled in front of your wife and friends,’ the inspector said.
Vincent puffed out his chest, straightened his suit, picked up the case and handed it to Cantwell.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I will accompany the inspector to clear up this obvious case of mistaken identity. Expect me back within the hour,’ Vincent said.
He kissed his wife on the cheek but she did not return his affection and he patted her gently on the hip as he made to walk away.
The guard spoke up. ‘If you check the muskets I threw from the balcony, you will find I am telling the truth. My name is Warren Coucher, and the weapons I fired on Sir Timothy Sivewright were stolen from the Hercules. I’m sure anyone of the crew might identify them. Since I have not travelled to Calais, the muskets must have been brought here by one of you. Vincent Scanlan supplied the weapons to me and said they were untraceable. I was a fool overcome by greed and am deeply remorseful for the terrible deed I have committed.’
‘He is lying. Anyone of us could have brought those guns here, including Sir Timothy,’ Vincent said.
‘I suggest you say little more, Mr Scanlan,’ the inspector said.
H
e gripped Scanlan by the arm, directing him out the palace gates. Two policemen helped Coucher walk for he was weak with pain.
Cantwell was lost in thought wondering how to tell Lady Sivewright of her husband’s death. Olivia Webster consoled Virginia Scanlan who was sobbing.
‘This cannot be happening, Olivia. Tell me it’s an awful dream. Vincent is not capable of such a thing.’
‘I’m sure it will be sorted out, Gin. Nothing to worry about,’ Olivia said, not believing her own words.
21
On Christmas Eve, a large crowd gathered at the Place de Carrousel where rows of wooden benches surrounded an elevated stage. Men, women and children jostled for the best seats to view the morning’s entertainment.
The tall red uprights stood in sharp contrast against the blue sky. A bell rang and the crowd stared intently. Two men were led up the stairs at the side of the platform, their hands bound tightly behind their backs. One was made to watch as the other was walked to the bascule and secured with wide leather straps. The bascule was tipped to the horizontal and slid forward so the man’s neck sat comfortably in the base of the lunette whose top half was lowered and fastened to restrain his head. A click accompanied the pull of a cord, followed by the rush of the blade. Warren Coucher’s head thudded into the bottom of an iron bucket and a loud cheer erupted from the crowd. His body was unstrapped, rolled into a coffin and pushed onto a waiting cart.
Vincent Scanlan shook uncontrollably. He sprinted to the edge of the platform, leaping off, smashing nose first onto the cobblestones below. The crowd laughed as two policemen jerked him to his feet and walked him back to the steps. Blood streamed from his face and he lost control of his legs. He struggled as they dragged him onto the platform. The whites of his eyes flashed with terror and his bowels loosened. Urine poured down his trousers, pooling at his feet. The crowd cheered him on to more useless antics and he did not disappoint them. He mustered a mouthful of spit, spraying it into the face of the man holding him. The veins on his head bulged as he was pulled to the bascule where a woman was wiping away Coucher’s blood. Vincent convulsed madly as they tied him down. The woman offered a cloth to mop his face but he snarled at her so she retreated. The crowd was enthralled. The laughter and shouts of abuse were hot pokers into Vincent’s soul. He screamed for mercy, they screamed for his head. As the bascule was tipped and Vincent’s head fixed in the lunette, he was truly sorry for all the wrong he had done in his life. He prayed crazily to the God he was not sure existed, begging forgiveness for his sins and deliverance from the eternal fires of hell. The priest who came to his cell and heard his last confession granted him absolution but warned his final judgement was God’s, with faith his only comfort. Because of this, no peace befell him even in his last moments.
Vincent thought of Virginia and the pain he’d brought her, unaware she was watching on.
The executioner peered over the crowd that suddenly went silent. He tugged the cord and the mouton drove the steel blade down. The crowd roared as the head dropped into the bucket and the antics of the foolish man ended.
Vincent’s eyelids fluttered shut. Briefly his heart pumped on, the pulsing stump of his neck splashing blood over his severed head.
A voice cut above the roar of the crowd.
‘Vincent!’ Virginia screamed.
Vincent’s eyes opened wide, quivered then shut a final time.
She continued to yell Vincent’s name until officials took her away, rigid and morbid with grief. They helped her across the square to the Hotel Crillon where they sat her down, offering worthless comfort. In her sorrow, Virginia’s mind cast back to her last meeting with Vincent. In a cold cell, lit only by a sliver of light from a narrow window in the roof, he sobbed pathetically and pleaded for her to try anything to have him released, irrationally believing she would succeed.
Virginia pulled a chair close to his and he leaned into her, wanting to be held. She caressed his head against her shoulder, muffling the despairing noises rising from his miserable throat. Her tears dripped into his hair.
The last ounce of composure left Vincent. She kissed him mechanically, unable to comfort him in his inconsolable state. He was pitiful but Virginia wanted him to be strong for her, even in his distress.
Vincent stared into Virginia’s eyes, making dramatic wordless contortions, screwing his face into frightening expressions as he toppled into the pool of insanity. They held each other a last time. She left the cell. A storm of rage exploded as Vincent hurled the chairs into a wall, screaming to be set free. He slumped to his knees, then fell onto his side and gently rocked. He sang a hymn he’d learnt as a boy then wept uncontrollably. Virginia walked from the prison into the darkening light.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a prison official wanting a signature to release Vincent’s body. She would return to London with her dead husband aboard the Hercules at the charitable insistence of Lady Sivewright.
22
Dressed in black, Lady Sivewright cast a single red rose onto Sir Timothy’s coffin as it was lowered into the grave. The priest prayed out loud, scattering holy water into the hole as a lone cloud blotted out the sun. He gave a final blessing and made a large sign of the cross in the air before briefly consoling Lady Sivewright and then disappearing through the headstones.
Caroline stood alone in the shade of a wild fig tree. When the mourners left, Cantwell and Dixon helped her into a waiting carriage then watched her roll down a narrow, cobbled road and out the graveyard gates.
A shovelful of sand thudded against the coffin, and the rose exploded in a burst of petals.
23
‘A Merry Christmas to you all.’ Lady Sivewright greeted her guests, sitting them down to coffee and blueberry muffins.
‘Gentlemen, it is a desperate time and my grief is heavy. The boys miss Timothy terribly.
‘Vincent Scanlan was buried yesterday attended only by his poor wife Virginia. I bear no grudge against Vincent, and you must lighten your souls with a similar spirit. He suffered depressive bouts over many a long year and I pray we are all spared such a terrible curse.
‘In regard to these recent events I find it abhorrent and barbaric that men of intellect see fit to lop off the head of another. It says much about the French justice system to see ninety-six men and two women executed in just four days by that infernal guillotine. I will visit with Virginia in good time, and for the men we loved we will shed tears of sorrow, healing our broken hearts together.’
The three men tried to blink away their welling eyes.
‘Charles, I know Timothy held you in high regard. In recognition and gratitude for your dedicated research you will receive an annual stipend. The money must fund projects encouraging wonder at the natural world. Timothy’s greatest happiness came in the awe and delight at creation. Charles, I trust you will use the ten-thousand-pound annuity wisely.’
He was speechless beneath a flood of tears. She reached over, squeezing his hand.
‘I am unsure if a thank you is sufficient, Lady Sivewright,’ Charles said.
‘You can start by calling me Caroline or I will rescind the offer and you can spend the rest of your days tied to a laboratory microscope.’
Caroline laughed and cried at the same time, starting Charles up again. She touched his arm, whispering in his ear. ‘It is my absolute pleasure.’
He composed himself as best he could. Caroline turned to Cantwell.
‘Geoffrey, Timothy’s death has stung you more than any realise but me. I have seen the weight of hurt upon your shoulders. One night as we sat by the drawing room fire he talked of things I knew were close to his heart.’
Cantwell shifted uncomfortably while Caroline recounted her husband’s thoughts.
Caroline, you know I regard Geoffrey Cantwell as the finest man in my employ. When he returns from Nazareth I will ask him to lead one last quest. To be fair, I owe him more than all our money could ever buy, something far more important: the freedom to indulge his passion for
cave paintings and his work on the origins of man. Seven years at my beck and call is too long even with its financial rewards. His loyalty is beyond reproach but he could well do with a wife, and who would want to marry a man who is never home? After all he has done for me, and in my great admiration for him, he will never worry about money again. Until his dying day I will add one thousand pounds a month to his personal account without obligation and will continue to finance all projects of his choosing, including the use of the Hercules if that is his wish. In addition, a push for a knighthood will be made on his behalf by the Royal Society at my insistence, for his invaluable contribution to archaeology. Above all, Caroline, I hope to spend more time with Geoffrey, preferably on the golf course.
'In saying all of this, he was as happy as I had ever seen him.’ Caroline beamed.
Cantwell had embarrassment written across his face. Dixon got off his seat, bowing on bended knee in front of him. Caroline laughed and Webster smiled, still overwhelmed by Sir Timothy’s generosity.
‘Sir Geoffrey, does this mean your pick swinging days are over?’ Dixon said.
Cantwell didn’t answer and instead pushed him off balance with his foot. Dixon got back in his chair sporting a stupid grin. Caroline watched their boyish antics with delight and continued her speech.
The Jesus Germ Page 9