by Gavin Scott
It was a sight none of them would ever forget, and when Forrester at last saw the pictures in the British press, he felt a cold sweat of anger. He had secretly exulted in his role in getting the ship out of France; now he felt responsible for the appalling suffering of those on board and deeply ashamed that the country inflicting that suffering was his own.
19
TWO WRITING DESKS
At their next tutorial Ken Harrison studiously refrained from asking anything about what had happened after Forrester had left for America, but when their discussion of Athenian naval techniques and their relationship to Athenian democracy was over, Forrester felt it only fair to give him a summary.
Harrison listened intently, puffing on his pipe and raising his eyebrows now and again as Forrester described events on the Queen Mary, the theft of the Sumerian effigy, finding Loppersum’s body in the abandoned building at Flushing Meadows, and his own narrow escape from the warehouse at Pier 751. There was a moment’s silence when he finished. Then Harrison spoke.
“I went to have a chat with Oggy Pritchard while you were away. The little chap at Watkins Books.”
“Excellent. What did you find out?”
“Well, I went to Cecil Court and hung about a bit till I saw Watkins père et fils go out for lunch. Then I popped in and said I was a pal of yours.”
“How did he react?”
“As if he’d been given a medal. He couldn’t get over the fact that you hadn’t forgotten him.”
Forrester smiled. “I don’t suppose many people take him seriously.”
“Well they should. He’s a keen chap, is Oggy, and eager to help you, despite Mr. Smith.”
“Yes,” said Forrester, remembering the great boots slamming into his hands on the rail of the Queen Mary and the massive arms crushing him on Pier 751. “Mr. Smith.”
“The poor little chap’s been having nightmares about him, but it didn’t stop him keeping his ears open.”
“And had he found anything out?”
Harrison smiled. “For a start, it seems Arthur Koestler has been visiting Watkins Books and asking for information on Sumerian mythology.”
“Koestler?”
“And a short fat man who sounds remarkably like Crispin Priestley.”
“Before or after Templar was killed?”
“Both.”
“In the case of Priestley, of course, it’s only to be expected. Templar had shown him the curse letters and he was helping translate them. Watkins may have had helpful books. But Koestler. That’s interesting.”
“Oggy also talked about a very grand lady. I wonder if that might have been your Mrs. Palmer. He said he’d seen her having a bit of a set-to with Aleister Crowley.”
Forrester thought back to what he’d heard about the power struggle within the ranks of the occult.
“Did he gather any hints of what it was about?”
Harrison met his eye. “An object of power.”
Forrester cast his mind back to the scene in the lecture room at Columbia.
“The Narak effigy,” he said.
“Which makes sense of something else Oggy overheard,” said Harrison. “Apparently Mrs. Palmer shouted, ‘We’re going to get them, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’”
“The seals,” said Forrester.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Harrison. “We know Charles Templar had a seal. Perhaps Billy Burke had another, and Jan Loppersum a third. Perhaps they thought you had one, and that’s why they came after you.”
“But I didn’t have one,” said Forrester. “And it seems absurdly far-fetched that Burke and Loppersum just happened to have seals as well.” But even as he said this he began to wonder if it was that far-fetched.
* * *
Next day Forrester had a meeting at the Empire Council for Archaeology in London and telephoned Roy Bell at the Yard to offer to brief him on what had happened, an offer that was eagerly accepted. To his great frustration, Bell’s own investigation into Templar’s murder had got nowhere. Further enquiry about security measures at the museum had indeed revealed that with so many of its holdings being returned from all over the country, keys had been provided to several different haulage companies and even to the Royal Engineers, because they had helped with the wartime transport. But though the police had followed up these leads, they had failed to establish any connections between the temporary key-holders, Charles Templar or any of the suspects. Bell had even been in touch with Detective O’Connell in New York, but their discussions, over a crackly transatlantic line, had not proved very fruitful.
Investigation of Angela Shearer’s energetic love life produced several possible motivations, but her alibi, like those of Arthur Koestler, Aleister Crowley and Jack Casement, had been checked and found to be watertight. In addition, it turned out that all Templar’s closest associates at the Foreign Office had been at an extended official dinner when the murder had taken place, which had now been established as being between eleven and midnight.
“So I’m wondering what you’ve found out about Mr. Smith,” said Forrester.
“Mr. Smith?” said Bell, flicking through his notes.
“The bogeyman Crowley conjured up to frighten Oggy Pritchard in Watkins Books.”
“Oh yes, we’ve looked into him – but he seems to be a figment of Crowley’s imagination,” said Bell.
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Forrester, and described the two attacks on him by someone whose face was hidden. “If the man who tried to crush me to death in that warehouse had succeeded I think I might have ended up with the same kind of injuries as you found on Charles Templar.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the sort of evidence that would stand up in court,” said Bell.
“But if any of the suspects had access to or influence over a character like that, it’s irrelevant whether their personal alibis stand up or not.”
“But as no one, including you, has ever seen this Mr. Smith face to face, he’s a hard man to track down,” said Bell, reasonably enough.
Forrester put this to one side for the moment and passed on Oggy Pritchard’s information about the row between Mrs. Palmer and Aleister Crowley over the seven seals, Sir Edward St. John Townsend’s connection with the stolen Narak effigy. At which point Bell shook his head dolefully.
“I’d hoped you’d give me some information that would help me with one unsolved murder,” he said wryly. “Instead of which you give me two more murders – not of British nationals, I might add – and a mysterious strongman.”
Forrester grinned. “I bet that kind of thing’s never put you off in the past,” he said. “And I think you’re just as determined to know what’s really been going on as I am.”
Bell shrugged. “Possibly,” he said. “Though nobody’s offered me any free trips to New York to encourage me.” He stood up. “And here’s another plum falling into your lap: the beautiful Miss Shearer wants to have another word with you.”
“What on earth for?”
“She seems to see you as the white knight in this affair,” he said. “Having somewhat prematurely given up on us.”
* * *
That afternoon Forrester once again found himself in the elegant apartment in the mansion block in Drayton Gardens, as Angela Shearer looked into his eyes with enough sincerity to convince a theatreful of spectators.
“Thank you, Duncan,” she said. “Thank you for coming to see me and thank you for all that you’ve done.”
“Very little, I’m afraid, Miss Shearer,” said Forrester, feeling as if he was reciting someone else’s lines.
“Angela, please. And I don’t believe you about doing very little. I’ve heard you went to America looking for clues about what happened to poor Charles.”
“It wasn’t exactly like that,” began Forrester, but Angela drew him down onto the sofa, her eyes never leaving his.
“And I know you prevented a horrible scene between Jack and Arthur that terrible day I found Ch
arles’s body. You were so kind to me, and Arthur was such a beast.”
“Might Koestler have killed Charles, or had someone do it for him?”
“No,” said Angela firmly. “I don’t think he cares enough about anybody else to bother to kill them. Milly!” A middle-aged woman entered. “Will you bring tea and sandwiches for Dr. Forrester?”
While they were waiting Forrester told Angela about the visit to Watkins Books and the meeting with Aleister Crowley. At the mention of his name Angela emitted a soft shriek of horror.
“That man terrifies me,” she said.
“You’ve met him?”
Her face clouded. “And I never want to meet him again,” she said. “He radiates evil.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Oh, at one of those parties,” she replied with a vagueness Forrester sensed was not entirely sincere. Also, it was hard to imagine Crowley turning up at the kind of theatrical festivals of mutual congratulation which likely would be Angela’s normal social milieu. “It was where I met Jack, actually.”
“Jack Casement knows Aleister Crowley?”
Milly came in with the tea and sandwiches and Angela served them both and began to eat hungrily.
“I don’t know if he actually knows him. They were just at the same party. He was more a friend of the host, I think. There was a famous explorer there, too, very handsome and distinguished, who looked as if he’d been eroded by the desert winds.”
“Not Edward St. John Townsend?”
“Yes, that was his name. How clever of you.”
“Who was the host?”
“Darling, I really can’t remember that. It was years ago. All I can think of is that horrible Crowley man with his big moon face and staring eyes.” Then she brightened. “Actually, the woman giving the party didn’t like him either. I remember there was something of a froideur between them.”
“Your hostess was a woman? Was she a friend of Casement’s?”
“I suppose so. Yes. Long-faced woman. Rather mystic.”
“Not a Mrs. Theresa Palmer?”
Angela stared at him as if he was a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
“Why yes,” she said. “You are so brilliant. Do you think she’s involved?”
“I think she may be in a struggle with Aleister Crowley over the possession of something they both believe to be an object of power.”
“Oh my goodness. And Charles was caught up in that because of that cylinder seal of his?”
“It’s possible.”
“So do you think Aleister Crowley killed Charles?”
“Not personally, no. He’s not physically strong enough.”
“But might he have used black magic?”
“No – I don’t believe in magic, black or otherwise.” He was about to explain about Mr. Smith when a voice spoke from the doorway.
“I think your worldview is rather limited, Dr. Forrester,” said Arthur Koestler.
Angela screamed and leapt to her feet.
“Arthur! What on earth are you doing here?”
“Spying on you,” said Koestler, striding over to them, but pausing at the tea trolley to help himself to a handful of sandwiches. “Which it seems was a wise precaution.” He pronounced the word precaution as though it began with a B.
“Don’t be so silly,” said Angela. “You remember Dr. Forrester; he’s the archaeologist who was so kind that horrible day. He even stopped Jack Casement from beating you up. But I thought you were in Paris.”
“I was in Paris,” said Koestler, dropping down into the chair opposite them. “And it was a triumph.”
“It was for the French edition of his book,” said Angela. “You know, Darkness at Lunchtime.”
“Noon, you fool,” said Koestler, taking another sandwich. “The last time I was there I was on the run from the Germans. This time I was a star.”
“It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it?” said Angela.
“Darkness is now the bestselling book in France, and the reviewers claim it will change French attitude to communism forever.”
“That’s marvellous,” said Angela. “I’ve never really liked communism, though I always had a soft spot for Uncle Joe.”
“That’s only because he never tried to have you shot,” said Koestler.
“No,” said Angela. “He didn’t. Though the Morning Star did once give me a horrid review.”
“Sartre and de Beauvoir were all over me. And Merleau-Ponty – all the existentialists. Camus said my book was a better piece of existentialism than The Outsider.”
“I never understood why that man didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral, did you?” said Angela, looking at Forrester. “You know, in The Outsider. I mean, couldn’t he have at least pretended?” But before Forrester could reply she turned back to Koestler. “Listen, darling, Dr. Forrester has been sleuthing away awfully hard to find out who killed poor Charles – he’s been to America and the United Nations and Watkins Books and all over the place and he met Aleister Crowley and persuaded a lovely little dwarf to help him. And now there’s a mysterious woman called Mrs. Theresa Palmer, who’s a friend of… another friend of mine. And it’s all about a mysterious Sumerian effigy with terrifying powers.”
Koestler fixed Forrester with a piercing look.
“But I gather you do not think supernatural forces played a role in Templar’s murder?” he said.
“No, I do not,” said Forrester. “And I don’t expect you do either.”
“Then you would be wrong,” said Koestler.
“Really,” said Forrester. “I had always thought of you as a man of reason.”
“I am,” said Koestler, “but I am also a man of science, and ever since Rutherford split the atom, science has been steadily pushing us into very strange territory.”
“Not the territory of magic, however,” said Forrester.
“So you say. But during the 1920s Sir Arthur Eddington claimed that the desk at which he wrote was in fact two desks,” said Koestler. “Eddington was one of the world’s leading scientists and he said that if he looked at his desk through the eye of an astronomer, he saw a solid antique on which his elbows rested comfortably as he wrote. If he looked through the eyes of a physicist, he saw it consisted almost entirely of empty space. Empty but for a few unimaginably tiny specks of matter where electrons whirled around even tinier nuclei separated by distances a hundred thousand times their own size. His point was that we live not in a solid world, but a world of shadows.”
Forrester considered this for a moment. “You’re saying that if physical reality on the atomic level is as tenuous as that, anything can happen.”
“Not anything, no, there are laws, but we do not yet understand them all.”
“Laws that would allow Sumerian demons to be real?” said Forrester.
“Real?” returned Koestler. “What is real?” He took another sandwich and spoke as he chewed. “Imagine our distant descendants, long after we have been forgotten, coming across the remains of an atomic bomb and tinkering with it, not knowing the forces it could unleash. Is it not at least possible, Dr. Forrester, that your much-despised Sumerian effigy is similarly able to unleash the forces of nature in ways we simply can no longer conceive?”
“I always love the way Arthur is so certain about everything,” said Angela, brightly. “Charles was always so easily upset.”
“Charles is dead,” said Koestler firmly. “There is no point in talking about him anymore.”
For some reason Koestler’s determination to close down that avenue of discussion aroused a contrary streak in Forrester.
“Was there something else upsetting Charles apart from the business about the seal? Anything you haven’t told me?”
“For example about your love life,” suggested Koestler, mockingly.
“Well, he did tend to get the wrong end of the stick about me,” said Angela. “He was worried I hadn’t been faithful to him during the war.” Forrester heard Koestler suppr
ess a snort of laughter, and Angela turned on him angrily. “But I was faithful to him, in my heart,” she said. “Always. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Koestler opened his mouth to reply, but Forrester forestalled him.
“Was that all, Angela? Was there anything else that was upsetting him?”
There was a pause.
“It was utterly trivial,” said Angela. “And absolutely not his fault.”
“What wasn’t his fault?”
“It was one of the messengers. You know, the office messengers who flit about the Foreign Office with trolleys full of files.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know. One of them had sent him someone else’s files by mistake, and Charles was frightfully uneasy about it.”
“Why? If it wasn’t his fault?”
“Because he thought there was something going on,” she said. “Something that shouldn’t have been going on.”
“You mean spying?”
“No, I don’t think it was spying. He would have known exactly what to do about that.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know, Duncan,” she said piteously. “The only word I remember is ‘researches’. Researches that didn’t make sense. Then all this stuff about the Sumerian demon started happening, and he became really frightened.” And she began to cry.
Koestler stood up.
“I think you had better go now, Forrester,” he said. “I think you have caused enough trouble for one afternoon.”
Forrester ignored him and put a hand on Angela’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to have upset you, Angela. But I have the feeling that what you’ve told me may help us catch the murderer.”
“Really?” said Koestler, showing him to the door. “And put the demon back in the bottle? That I very much doubt.”
20
SIR EDWARD AND MR. SMITH
From Angela Shearer’s flat Forrester took the Tube to Leicester Square and returned to Cecil Court and Watkins Books. This time Geoffrey Watkins was behind the counter with Oggy Pritchard, pricing some recent arrivals. When he saw Forrester, Oggy practically saluted. Geoffrey was a little more wary.