“There isn’t one.”
“There was. Part of the deep Central Line opened in 1900. The nearby High Holborn station was built by a competing train company It was only a few yards away overground, but unconnected underground. When the system was rationalized into a single network, it made sense to add a deep Central Line station under High Holborn. That left this station superfluous, and it was acquired for the Black Museum. The collection was originally in the basement of the British Museum building off Great Russell Street. Space became increasingly problematic as the National Collection expanded. The Natural History Collection decamped to South Kensington, and we came here. The Museum was glad to get shot of us after the infamous plague of newts during the 1911 great tea trolley disaster.”
Bellevue’s lecture was drowned out by the deep rumble and roar of a train passing through a nearby tunnel. Everything in the decommissioned station shook. Bellevue made a lunge to stop a cardboard box sliding off the end of a crate. Karla got there first and secured it until the vibration stopped.
“Of course, there are disadvantages,” Bellevue said.
Jameson noticed an old sepia-faded poster on the wall indicating the direction to First Aid.
“The public sheltered down here during the Blitz,” Bellevue said, observing his interest.
“You let the public into the Black Museum?”
“Of course not, we moved in after the war. Oh, I see what you mean. I was referring to the first Blitz, in World War One.”
They passed through an arch, where the platform had been, and climbed a spiral staircase. At the top, a door took them into a room with chairs along one side and a desk at the other. Behind a computer on the desk sat a slim woman of indeterminate age. Jameson was vaguely disappointed not to see a vintage Civil Service black typewriter. The computer rather ruined the ambience.
“Miss, ah, Trenchfoot, my secretary,” Bellavue said.
She lifted her glasses from where they hung around her neck on a chain, and, placing them on her nose, examined the visitors carefully.
“I have their passes, Director,” she said.
Jameson smiled broadly at her as he took the plastic card from her hand and clipped it on his lapel, but she was immune to his manly charms. She did recoil when Karla took her ID.
“I am beginning to feel unloved,” Karla said to Jameson, laughing.
“You are the first daemon allowed access to the Black Museum,” Bellevue said. “I must say, you are not quite what we expected.”
“I could snarl and drool a bit if that would help,” Karla said.
“No interruptions, Miss Trenchfoot?” Bellevue asked, ushering his guests into his office. Like Jameson, he automatically stood aside to let the lady go first. It was easy to forget that this lady was a blood-sucking monster. Bellevue’s room was a clone of every corporate management office that Jameson had ever seen, apart from the lack of a picture window. Hidden lighting filled the room in a comfortable glow. Even the air smeled fresh, or what passed for fresh in London. Presumably there was a circulation system somewhere. The man was a bureaucrat, not a museum curator, a product of the new style public sector management. The gentlemen were out and the players were in. Trouble was, it was often not quite clear what game were they trained to play.
They all sat down.
“So where did you get this?” Bellevue placed the crumpled, torn sheet of hieroglyphs on his desk and smoothed it out.
“In a Masonic temple,” Jameson replied. “In Essex.”
“Essex?” Bellevue looked shocked.
“Badford to be precise.”
“It just gets better and better.” Bellevue scratched his chin. “Tell me the context, please.”
“Not relevant, if you’ll just tell me what it is and why it concerns the Black Museum,” Jameson countered.
“That is confidential,” Bellevue said stiffly.
“It seems we have an impasse,” Jameson said, unwilling to blink first in a bureaucratic showdown with one of The Commission’s mortal enemies.
“What fools you people are,” Karla said, looking up as if for information. “Your complete destruction is possible and all you do is play chimp games, beating your chests and waggling your willies at each other. How do human women put up with it?”
Bellevue turned beetroot red and huffed. Jameson only smiled, being used to Karla’s directness.
“Now listen,” Karla said. She ran through an abridged and admirably succinct version of events to date. Bellevue listened intently, turning pale when she mentioned elves. “So,” Karla asked, “are you going to stop pissing around and tell us what we need to know?”
Bellevue pressed a button on his phone.
“Sir,” Miss Trenchfoot’s voice was tinny on the little speaker.
“Ask Professor Fairbold to join us at his earliest convenience.”
“Yes, Director.”
“And bring in some tea please.”
Jameson relaxed; tea indicated a temporary truce in the Civil Service lexicon of interdepartmental infighting.
“What do you know about the Egyptian Book of the Dead?” Bellevue asked.
“It’s the Ancient Egyptian Bible or Koran,” Jameson replied.
“That is the popular view, and, as usual, the popular view is misleading. It isn’t called the Book of the Dead, and it isn’t even a book. The real name is untranslatable into modern English, but would be something like The List of Emerging Forth into the Light. It’s actually a compendium of spells.”
“Like a Wicca’s Book of Shadows,” Jameson interjected.
“Yes, but a rather specialized list used in funeral rites. The spells are to help the dead person’s Ba.”
“Ba?” Jameson asked.
“Their soul, if you will, although the word is untranslatable as we don’t have the cultural references. Ba means something more tangible than a soul, more like a clone, almost a total copy of the deceased. Anyway, the spells allow the Ba to enter the Otherworld and proceed safely through its various regions to the Field of Reeds, the Egyptian Heaven. Each list is different, individually created for the owner.”
He picked up the scrap of paper.
“These hieroglyphs depict a spell from the Book.”
“So what? I can go and buy a copy of the Book of the Dead in the British Museum bookshop. What’s the big secret about that?” Jameson asked, pointing at the scrap of paper with its hieroglyphics, and trying to deflect what was turning into a lecture on Egyptian culture. Maybe Bellevue had gone native and was becoming an academic.
“I am coming to that,” Bellevue said, refusing to be distracted.
There was a knock at the door and Miss Trenchfoot entered with a tray. “Professor Fairbold is on his way, Director.”
Bellevue ignored her and carried on with his explanation as if she wasn’t there.
“You’ve heard of Wallis Budge?”
“The famous British Museum Egyptologist—of course.”
“He smuggled the Papyrus of Ani out of Egypt for the National Collection. The Papyrus is the most complete collection of The Book of the Dead ever found. It contains spells unknown in other copies. The Egyptian authorities and the French got wind of the matter and locked him up. Fortunately, Budge got away. Just as well, I shudder to think what might have transpired if the French had got the Papyrus.”
Bellevue tapped the scrap of paper liberated from Essex.
“This is one of the forbidden spells that we have censored from the version of the Papyrus of Ani on general release to academia and the public. That is why we were so concerned to find out that The Commission had a copy, because there are no copies!”
“Until now,” Jameson said. “It seems you have a mole.”
“Impossible,” Bellevue shook his head. “My people are entirely reliable. Someone must have stumbled on another version of the Book in Egypt.”
A knock on the door announced the arrival of the summoned professor before Jameson could tell Bellevue what he thou
ght of that explanation. Maybe Bellevue believed in the tooth fairy as well.
“Ah, Fairbold, take these two down and show them the original of this,” Bellevue handed the professor the paper and rose to his feet to indicate the interview was over. “Answer any questions they might have.”
The black cat sat outside. It regarded The Commission agents with an expression of supercilious disdain, turning its head to watch them leave. It was licking its paws again when Jameson looked back. He noticed one of them had a white flash.
CHAPTER 21
I MEET THEREFORE
I AM
Professor Fairbold reassuringly resembled an archetype Museum curator, from his white-flecked beard to his worn leather shoes. He even wore a lab coat that had once been white. Fairbold led them through a maze of tunnels to a study. Benches loaded with reprints of academic papers, journals, and documents ran along the walls. At one end was a sink with a kettle. He shooed a black cat off the chair against the desk, where it had been sleeping. It jumped down as if it had intended to do so all along and that Fairbold’s hand-waving was a complete coincidence. Jameson noticed that it had one white front paw.
“Tea?” Fairbold asked.
“No, thank you,” Jameson said, wondering if the Civil Service bulk-bought the stuff from the same place they got the paint.
“Sit down.”
Jameson moved a skull of a small mammal from a chair and sat. Karla preferred to stand.A low moan sounded through the door, tonally rich in depressive harmonics to an extent that made Jameson’s teeth clench.
“Take no notice,” Fairbold said. “When we were in the BM’s basement people said it was the ghost of Pharoah Amon Ra haunting his coffin. Total nonsense, of course, the moans are much louder here than Bloomsbury.”
“Of course,” Jameson replied.
“It’s actually echoes from the Holy Land.”
“The Holy Land?” Jameson asked, thinking Israel was a long way off for an echo.
“The St. Giles Rookery,” Fairbold replied. “We are right on top of the stew here. The slum wasn’t the biggest or the worst in London but it was right next door to the gentility in Oxford Street and the West End. They say that a watch stolen at eleven o’clock had changed hands three times and was being chawed in St. Giles by twelve.”
“Chawed?” Jameson asked, wondering if he was going mad.
“Old Romany word for fencing stolen items, like “totty” meaning a pretty girl or “chav” a low-born youth. There’s lots of Romany in vernacular Southern English.”
“Fascinating as this is, Professor Fairbold . . .” Jameson said.
“All totally harmless, although I have to say that the hauntings have become more prolonged and frequent in the last few weeks.”
“Professor . . .”
“And you’re a genuine daemon, my dear,” Fairbold said to Karla, taking her hand. “I’ve never seen one in the flesh before, so to speak. We academics lead such sheltered lives in our studies.” He beamed at her. “I’m told you are one of the blood-sucking kind.”
Karla leaned towards Fairbold. Jameson made to stop her, but she put her face close to the professor’s and extended her teeth.
“Fascinating. May I take a closer look?” he asked, producing a small magnifying lens and holding it over her mouth.
Karla looked very confused. Prey was supposed to recoil in terror, not try to study the hunter’s fangs.
“How rude of me not to offer you some blood, my dear,” Fairbold said, rolling up his sleeve.
“Professor, please!” Jameson said, despairingly. “We’ve eaten. Now about The Book of the Dead.”
“Ah yes,” He sat back, reluctantly putting away the glass. “Well, you may have read that Budge cut the Papyrus of Ani into thirty-seven pieces to smuggle it out of Egypt, irreparably damaging it in the process.”
“Go on,” Jameson said, unwilling to admit he knew no such thing and cared even less.
“Utter nonsense, of course, Budge was a Museum man through and through, not Indiana Jones. The Papyrus was cut up here in the Museum to disguise the fact that we were excising certain sensitive sections. One of them was the Coming Forth into the Light Spell. We have the only copy ever found, that is, until you people showed up. It has quite shaken the Director, I can tell you.”
Fairbold tittered, apparently amused at the Director’s consternation. There was little love lost between the academics and the management in most academic organizations.
“You are sure?” Jameson asked.
“Oh yes. Now where did I put that key? Trust Howlet to be missing when I have visiters.”
Fairbold fumbled through the drawers built into the side of his desk.
“Howlet?”
“My assistant, he’s not the most reliable of fellows, but good at finding things. Ah, here it is.”
Fairbold produced an ancient brass key with a double-loop handle and trotted over to a bench. On it was an antiquated iron press of a design new to Jameson. It looked the sort of thing that might have been used to grill steaks or press trouser creases. The curator put the key in the lock at the front and strained on it without success.
“Allow me,” Karla reached over him and clicked the key through a complete turn.
“My, you’re strong for a little thing,” Fairbold said.
Karla smiled at him and gave Jameson an “is this nut for real” look.
“I suppose it’s because you are a daemon.”
“Professor, is it supposed to do that?” Jameson pointed to the press. The tension had come off the plates and white vapor was rolling from between them as if carbon dioxide was melting inside.
“It’s just water vapor. The Papyrus always decreases entropic levels, lowering the temperature sharply in its immediate vicinity. It’s not dangerous, take no notice.”
Whatever he professed, Jameson noticed that Fairbold donned a pair of latex gloves before pushing back the top plate on a rear hinge. Yellow light streamed from inside, imparting a golden glow to the study. Fairbold averted his eyes until the light dimmed. He put the paper beside the press and stepped back to give Jameson access.
“See for yourself.”
A rectangular section of papyrus was held down by a plate of glass. To Jameson all Egyptian writing looked alike. Figures with strange perspectives, legs sideways, chest flat, some with animal heads, marched in columns carrying unspecific objects. He picked up the Badford paper and moved it across the papyrus, looking for a match. His eyes ached and he found it difficult to focus. The papyrus hieroglyphs seemed to squirm and fade into the distance when studied. The check took longer than he had expected, but Fairbold was right. The match was exact.
He could hear distant shouts and assumed that the ghosts from the Rookery were active again, but the cries seemed more joyful. The figures on the papyrus were splashing in the water and hunting wildfowl with nets and sticks. How had he thought Egyptian art cartoony? These pictures were rounded, vibrant and highly colored. He could hear the beat of the bird’s wings and the slap of the river against the hull of his reed-boat.
“Don’t fall in,” Karla hauled him back, fingers gripping him so tightly that they hurt.
“I’m okay.” He wanted to rub his shoulder but forced himself to stand still.
“I should have warned you,” Fairbold said, in concern. “People with active imaginations can get sucked in, mesmerized, if you like. Did you see the Field of Reeds, Heaven?”
“Something like that,” Jameson replied. “Professor, what does this spell do?”
“Hm, thought I said. It is The Coming Forth into the Light.”
Jameson looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“It’s a spell to allow the Ba to safely open a door from the Field of the Reeds into the living world. So he can take up offerings and gifts from his living relatives and do favored people good. Conversely, the Ba might want to play cruel tricks on his enemies and curse them and their possessions, smiting them and so forth.”
&n
bsp; “In other words, it’s a magic spell for opening a door from deep into the Otherworld to the material world,” Jameson said.
“That is correct,” Fairbold said, beaming.
“Oh shit!” Jameson replied.
“Yes, but surely it’s not dangerous?” Fairbold asked.
“You think?” Jameson replied. “The ability to open a hole in space-time into the deep Otherworld isn’t dangerous? What, in your view, might be dangerous, the Sun going nova?”
“But the spell won’t work for a modern sorcerer,” Fairbold replied, speaking quickly so Jameson couldn’t interrupt. “I know, you want to tell me that all Western magic originated in Egypt, that even the sorcerers’ wand is a representation of the Goddess Weret Hekau, Great in Magic, who was depicted as a cobra.”
Actually, Jameson wanted to ask something quite different.
“Our world view is so different from the Bronze Age that ancient Egyptian is not translatable, so the spell won’t work in a modern language.”
“So, just use Ancient Egyptian for the ritual.” Jameson said, finally getting a toe hold on the conversation.
“We don’t know Ancient Egyptian.” Fairbold held up a hand to block Jameson’s protest. “Did you know that Egyptians had two words that we translate as magic, heka and akhu? The difference was important to them. It described two quite different types of sorcery, but we can’t make head nor tail of the distinction. We can more or less translate hieroglyphics where their meaning has some analogy in modern thought, but we have no idea how the words were pronounced or what gestures should be used while invoking the magic. And, as I keep trying to explain, we don’t follow the concepts clearly enough. For example, Thoth was the god who stood with Ma’at on Ra’s boat as it travelled across the heavens. But if Ma’at was his wife and associate, why was Seshat his feminine equivalent and how was she vital for maintaining the universe? Even the name Thoth, is Greek, not Egyptian.”
“What is his Egyptian name, then?” Jameson asked.
“It’s translated as Dhwty in the modern alphabet and may, note may, be pronounced as something like dee-hauty, but who knows?”
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