by Andy Emery
Ruby stepped forward. ‘Michael, wait a minute, I—’
‘My god!’ Webb puffed himself up, his cheeks turning red. The penny had dropped. ‘This is just a contemptible shakedown! Well, you thugs won’t get anything from me.’ He made to push past Michael, but the other two men grabbed him and shoved him against the wall, arms pinned to his sides. Michael leaned in and extracted a large wad of bank notes from one of Webb’s inside pockets.
‘See? I said you were a man of means. This’ll do nicely.’
Webb was squirming, almost in tears. ‘Bastard! You’re nothing more than a common street robber.’ Michael smiled. He licked his thumb and counted the notes. ‘And as for this trollop, she’s a filthy whore on the make!’
Michael looked up, shoved the wad of money into his pocket and snarled at Webb. ‘If not for that comment you would have escaped our little encounter unharmed, sir.’ He punched Webb hard in the stomach, doubling him up, then jerked his knee up into his face, smashing his nose and sending a spray of blood over his blue waistcoat.
Ruby winced and stifled a shriek, her hands rising to her mouth.
The other two O’Neills let Webb fall from their grasp, and left him wheezing and spitting blood.
Michael nodded to his two brothers. ‘I’ll meet you later.’ They took to their heels, running back to the road. As they ran, they let out a high-pitched wail: a nauseating, mournful shriek.
The hairs on the back of Ruby’s neck stood on end, and an icy chill settled on her heart. ‘I don’t believe it. That’s what they call the “keening,” isn’t it? They’re with the Banshees. The Flynn gang.’
Michael smiled. ‘That’s correct, my fine girl. And so am I. You had to find out some time. You’re looking at the right-hand man to Seamus Flynn himself. Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Wapping. All of the East End, it’ll all be ours soon. Ours to control. A regular “Little Ireland” if you like. You’ve fallen in with the right crowd, I’d say.’
‘I was thinking exactly the opposite, after what I’ve just seen. That man hadn’t done you any harm!’
‘And he wouldn’t have been harmed himself, if he hadn’t disrespected you. As for relieving him of his cash, he’ll have plenty more where that came from. He’ll not miss it.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t want any more to do with you.’
‘I’m not sure you can back out now. You’re a good little actress. You could be very useful to us.’
Ruby shook her head. ‘You can’t make me help you, or even see you again.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Michael handed her a slip of paper. She read it and stared at him, aghast. It was a familiar Bethnal Green address.
‘Your mother. Not well, is she? Vulnerable. It’s sad, but there it is. We can make sure she remains safe. Or… not.’
‘You wouldn’t! This is vile.’
Michael smiled and walked away. He stopped and looked back. ‘I suggest you make your way home. The nearest bobby might have been woken up by the boys’ keening. If so, he might wonder what you’re doing in the vicinity of that.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of Webb, still gurgling on the ground. ‘Thank you for your help tonight. I’ll see you soon.’
Ruby looked at Webb, who had rolled over and looked at her. His face convulsed and he spat vaguely in her direction, the blob of saliva and blood falling way short. She turned and hurried out of the alley.
11
The next morning, a hansom dropped Gedge and Cotter on Grosvenor Road in Pimlico, one of London’s most exclusive districts. On one side of the street flowed the River Thames, and on the other, on the corner of a green space called St George’s Square, was a building that just had to be Hawthorne’s house.
It was set between the uniform row of elegant townhouses that ran around the edge of the square, and a large brick-built factory: The Royal Army Clothing Depot. If anything, Beamish had underplayed the outlandish nature of the building’s architecture. An entrance porch supported by spiral-carved pillars led up to a medieval-looking front door of a solid, metal-studded construction. The window and door frames were arched, the window glass leaded. Intricately carved bargeboards and finials adorned the roof. Grotesque terracotta gargoyles leered down from the gable ends facing the road. But most dramatic of all, above the front door, the house boasted a tower reaching to three stories in height, topped by a castellated turret.
Gedge tugged on the iron doorbell. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a singular-looking individual. Only just over five feet tall, and almost as wide, the man stood ramrod-straight, an apron covering his butler’s uniform. He regarded them with a quizzical expression; his small, piggy eyes inscrutable. A fussy ginger moustache twitched on his upper lip.
‘Good morning. I am Lucas Gedge, and this is Leo Cotter. We are here to see Mr Hawthorne. I believe he is expecting us.’
Before the retainer could speak, a commanding voice called out from behind him.
‘Its alright, Busbridge. These are the two gentlemen I told you about. Welcome!’
The stocky manservant moved out of the way to reveal a beaming man of about sixty, wearing an elegant smoking jacket and cravat. His hair was smoothed over his cranium with lacquer.
‘EA Hawthorne at your service. Please come into the drawing room. I believe you want to talk about my favourite subject: ancient Egypt.’
They moved out of the entranceway, with its patterned tile floor, into a hall. A dramatic wooden staircase led upstairs. The walls were clad with dark wooden panelling and a luxurious deep-pile carpet covered the floor. Against the walls were several display cases containing ancient artefacts.
Hawthorne showed them into a side room whose walls were furnished with a large number of paintings, in many styles. They took seats next to an occasional table already laid out with a teapot and cups.
Gedge took in the room. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us at short notice.’
‘Oh, think nothing of it. I was sorry to hear of the calamity that’s befallen my old colleague Greatorex. And anyway, the nature of your enquiries intrigues me.’ He poured tea into the delicate china cups. ‘So, how can I help?’
‘In two ways, really. We’re looking for some general background on Egyptian antiquities in this country, along with their worth. But first, as you said, Mr Greatorex used to work with you at the British Museum, but a year or two ago, he moved to an obviously smaller institution: the Soane. It looks at first sight like a step down? As someone who knew him, I thought you could shed some light on that.’
Hawthorne’s eyes rolled in their sockets. ‘Well, in hindsight, I’m not sure I’d even go as far as to say I knew him. You see, he left the BM under something of a cloud. A dreadful shame, to be truthful. A waste of a great talent, withering away in that dust trap over at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’
‘What happened?’
Hawthorne exhaled theatrically, shaking his head and picking a piece of imaginary lint from his jacket. ‘He was one of the foremost Egyptologists of his day. Second only to myself, some said. He was involved in a number of important excavations and got a job at the BM, under me, after his doctorate from Cambridge. We cooperated on a number of research initiatives. But it all started to go wrong a few years ago.
‘Looking back, I’m sure something happened on his trip to the Research Institute in Cairo in ’87. After that, there was a definite change in his manner. One would come upon him in a trance, staring off into the middle distance. On several occasions when I entered his room, I interrupted him in some reading and he not only slammed the book shut, but immediately hid it away in a desk drawer, as though it was a top-secret document.’
Gedge and Cotter exchanged a glance. ‘You asked him about his behaviour? About that Cairo visit?’
‘Of course. But he blustered and deflected my queries. Pastoral care is far from my province, and I left it at that. More important things to do.’
‘And how did it develop? What led to his leaving the bigger institution?’
/> Hawthorne shifted in his seat a little. ‘It became obvious that his mind was focusing less and less on his work, and more and more on whatever else it was that was obsessing him. The research students under his care reported a lack of supervision. Things were coming to a head. Then, about eighteen months ago, some of those students observed Greatorex leaving a so-called “esoteric bookshop” down in Limehouse with a bundle of literature in his arms. Taken together with a few other clues, the penny finally dropped. The fool had become embroiled in the absurd mystical side of our noble calling.’
‘You’ll have to explain.’
‘It is unsavoury, but I’ll do my best. Obviously, the ancient Egyptians followed a vastly different religion to our own. Their society may have been sophisticated for its time, but their spiritual beliefs were primitive. They worshipped many gods, hundreds or thousands of them in fact, and in large part this governed their day to day actions. We’re still learning about all that. Their devotions are represented in ways that today’s more sensitive citizens might regard as blasphemous. The gods often manifested in animal form, or in human form with animal heads. For example, Anubis the jackal, Horus the hawk and Sobek the crocodile. Then there was the practice of mummification, their belief in the underworld, and the priesthood who ran the rule over all this.
‘But I digress. Let’s just say there is a possibility that an unstable mind could be influenced to give credence to these beliefs. Couple that with a fantasy that their ancient culture was in some way preferable to our own, and you have the deranged esoteric societies that spring up from time to time.’
‘You’re suggesting that Greatorex is or was involved in one of these groups. What do they actually do? Do they pose any sort of threat?’
‘I dread to think what they get up to. A lot of dressing up in ridiculous costumes and invoking their favourite gods, I imagine. I presume that on the whole, they are harmless, but equally, it seems probable that the injuries our friend sustained last night were related to the clandestine activities of the sect he belongs to. I learnt its name after I happened to see it on some headed notepaper he left lying around, and later the same name cropped up on a list of societies that had hired Clothworkers Hall in Whitechapel for evening meetings. They’re called “The Mystical Order of Wepwawet.”’
Hawthorne smiled and shook his head at the absurdity.
Cotter sat back. ‘What-the-what?’
‘Wepwawet. A god that only an Egyptologist is likely to have heard of. He’s similar in appearance to the jackal-headed Anubis, but Wepwawet actually has the head of a wolf, and that head is often shown as having grey or white fur, whereas Anubis is black-headed.’
‘So was Greatorex made to leave the “BM”?’
‘Oh, no. He resigned. Probably saw the writing on the wall, mind you. It was a relief to the museum authorities, as you can imagine. I was surprised that he turned up at the Soane not long after. “Head of Egyptian Studies”. Ridiculous! Their collection is minuscule compared to ours. One or two unique items, but that’s it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hawthorne. That gives us something to work on.’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘It beats me why you’re so interested. But happy to be of help, of course. Now, what was your other question?’
‘Whoever knocked Mr Greatorex out, they took something. A small human figure, made out of a greenish translucent material. Just three inches tall. Something called a shabti.’
Hawthorne’s eyes widened, and he adjusted his tie. ‘Oh, really? The fate of my former colleague suddenly becomes more interesting.’
Gedge looked at Cotter again. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, the world of archaeology and ancient history is a small one. Gossip gets around. In recent months there have been a couple of other incidents. Another theft of a shabti, from a museum in Edinburgh. And what seemed to be a failed attempt to do the same, at Cambridge University. In that case, an official died. Found at the bottom of a stairwell. They couldn’t be sure whether he fell or was pushed, but it happened during the attempted burglary. The shabti in question, and the one you describe having been stolen from the Soane, were all made of a substance called faience, a particular type of ceramic that the Egyptians used. And there’s something else that links those two incidents. In Edinburgh, a man was seen “acting suspiciously”, as they say. He was wearing some sort of emerald green oval badge. And at Cambridge, something similar was found at the bottom of the stairwell with the dead man. Emerald green and carved to represent a beetle. If we take it to be Egyptian, a scarab beetle.’
Gedge looked up, suddenly transfixed by what Hawthorne was saying. A scarab, a murder. Up until now, he had been sceptical about the link to Claude Rondeau’s dying words.
Hawthorne continued. ‘Shabti are minor artefacts. Hardly worth the risk to steal just one, or to kill someone in the process of doing so, even for some obsessive cult. Unless…’ He rubbed his chin, stood up, and stepped a few paces away from Gedge towards the corner of the room. ‘There’s an old story, usually considered apocryphal. It seems fantastic, but if true, it would explain the unusual importance of these shabti to someone. And if Greatorex is linked to it as well… That would be extraordinary!
‘It’s said that several centuries ago, an ancient book of magic, The Lykopolis Grimoire, was bought by an Englishman from a French collector of antiquities. It consisted of papyrus sheets covered in the hieroglyphic script of the Egyptians.
‘But it’s what’s said to be written on the papyrus that will be exciting the minds of these criminals, or their paymasters. In particular, a lot of the grimoire is concerned with the god I just mentioned, Wepwawet. His name means “opener of the ways”, and this relates to his role in guiding the deceased through the underworld. Lykopolis means “city of wolves” and was the Greek name for the Egyptian city of Asyut, the centre of the Wepwawet cult in ancient times.
‘The point about the grimoire, though, is that it casts that “opener of the ways” designation in a different light. It actually implies that by incanting spells contained within it, the way can be opened for Wepwawet and other gods and their retinues to be channelled into the present day, into the world which man inhabits now. Puerile nonsense, of course, but I’m sure the legend is why the book is so prized by the deluded members of contemporary so-called cults.
‘The thing is, nobody knows where the grimoire is. “Somewhere in England” is what the story says. Who knows whether there’s any truth to it at all?’
Gedge frowned. ‘But what’s the connection between the shabti and the grimoire?’
‘That’s another complication for whoever wishes to go through the ritual to recall Wepwawet. There’s one specific shabti that’s carved with a vital part of the spell of summoning that’s missing from the grimoire.’
‘So you’d need both the book and the shabti?’
‘So the legend says. The shabti concerned is made of faience, but nobody knows exactly what is written on it. Apparently, you would know it was the right one if you saw it. Whether the cultists have obtained the correct shabti yet, who knows? It may not be possible to be sure unless you have the grimoire as well.’
Gedge stood. ‘Alright, Mr Hawthorne. Thank you for your time. This has been very valuable.’
Hawthorne beamed at them. ‘Oh, I’m glad to have been of some help. There’s nothing I like better than prattling on about the ancients. Perhaps you’d like to take a look at some of my collection. The display cases in the hall have—’
‘I’m afraid we don’t really have time, sir. But I have to say your house is very impressive. Extraordinary architecture.’
‘Ah, thank you. Yes. A unique example of the Gothic style, plonked down in the middle of Pimlico. Actually it’s a sort of Gothic revival revived, as it were. Built only about a decade ago. Not much chance of mistaking my humble abode for anyone else’s.’
Gedge and Cotter made to leave. Gedge turned. ‘Just one more question, if I may. What were the circumstances of your own departure
from the British Museum?’
‘Oh, that’s easily explained. I am fortunate to be independently wealthy, you see.’ Hawthorne made an expansive gesture, indicating the house. ‘I’d reached the point where the advantages of being in full time employment, perusing research findings and being in the presence of that immensely impressive collection, were becoming outweighed by the tedium of administrative affairs. I resigned six months ago.’
‘I see. Thank you very much, Mr Hawthorne.’
‘Blimey,’ said Cotter as they made their way back down Grosvenor Road, looking for another hansom to hail. ‘Some people!’
Gedge ignored him. ‘It looks like the cult uses a scarab, or an image of one, as a sort of badge. Perhaps it’s a secret sign of membership. And they seem to be trying to steal as many of the shabti as they can in the hope of finding the right one. We must get over to this esoteric bookshop. But first I think I need to talk to Greatorex again, based on what we’ve just been told. Hopefully he’s well enough to see us. Want to tag along?’
Cotter shook his head. ‘Ah, no. I need to develop those pictures. And, as I upset him last time, maybe I’d better give it a miss, Lucas.’
As he closed the door, the smile disappeared from Hawthorne’s face. He went straight to his bureau and started to write a letter, inscribing the word URGENT at the top of the notepaper.
12
Gedge left Cotter to return to Spitalfields, and met up with Inspector Cross in the square at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
They were soon inside the Soane Museum, waiting in Greatorex’s office while he finished advising on a new display. After a few minutes he bustled into the room and greeted them with eyes wide in surprise.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?’
‘Mr Greatorex, I’m Inspector Jack Cross. I’m based in Whitechapel, but the local police division have allowed me to talk to you, as I believe the incident here might have some connection with crimes I’ve been investigating. But first I want to be sure you consider yourself fit to be interviewed?’