Light steps sounded on the stairs and the next moment Frankie entered the room. She was dressed in gym clothes and trainers. Her hair was windblown and there was a lovely colour in her cheeks. She looked vital and glowing. It made him feel even more decrepit.
‘Hey, you,’ she said, her voice friendly, and leaned over to give Isidore a kiss. Turning, she looked at Gabriel, a withering expression on her face. ‘Well.’ One word only, but it dropped the emotional temperature in the room by several degrees.
‘Hi,’ he said feebly.
For a few agonisingly long moments there was quiet between them.
Isidore pushed a chair towards Frankie. ‘Maybe you should sit down.’
‘Thanks,’ she said without taking her eyes off Gabriel’s face.
Silence again.
‘What’s up, Gabriel?’ Frankie’s voice was deceptively soft.
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ He knew he sounded defensive.
‘You’ve completely forgotten about Robbie.’
He pressed his hands against his temples. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Oh, really.’ That was Isidore, the traitor. ‘So why haven’t you accessed The Promethean Key yet? I gave you the password for that computer weeks ago. You must have had plenty of opportunities by now.’
Gabriel sent Isidore a bitter look.
‘OK. Forget about the computer for a moment. You’ve been around the sisters a lot. By this time you should know who the remote viewer is. And if you know the identity of the remote viewer, you have a pretty good idea who the killer is.’
He stirred himself. ‘I don’t, Frankie. I didn’t want to risk scanning either one of them and tipping the viewer off. And she hasn’t tried to scan me again.’
‘Are you sure? Are you sure you’d know if she tried to access you?’
‘For goodness’ sake. Give me some credit. Of course I’d know.’
Frankie’s voice was tight. ‘Why have you been avoiding me, Gabriel? Is it because of the phone call I made that night? Did it scare you so badly?’
Isidore’s embarrassment was palpable. ‘Maybe I should give you guys some privacy.’ Frankie nodded her thanks, then waited until he had closed the door behind him.
‘Was it the phone call? I was needy that night, I know.’
‘It’s not the phone call.’
‘So it’s the sisters.’
The silence this time was stretched excruciatingly tight, like a rubber band refusing to snap.
‘You’re besotted with them, aren’t you? Like Robbie was.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Gabriel, what’s wrong with you? One of them is a killer. And the other one probably helped her.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘What I know is that they’re poison. And you’re dying a slow death.’
‘Frankie, please. It’s too early in the morning for melodrama.’
‘I should have known. I should have known you wouldn’t be able to stay the distance. You’ve never been a long-distance runner. Not at Eyestorm and not now.’
His face burned. ‘I don’t need to listen to this.’ He got to his feet.
‘Gabriel, don’t go. We have to talk.’
‘I’m finished talking.’ As he walked past her, she said something, her voice low.
‘Please don’t disappoint me. Not again.’
• • •
He slammed out of Isidore’s house in a foul mood. So this is what happens when you try to help someone, he thought. No good deed goes unpunished. He should have stayed the hell away from Frankie and her missing stepson.
Except… he would not have met the two most fascinating women he had ever encountered in his life.
A taxi, its light on, was coming towards him and he lifted his hand.
‘Thirteen Drake Street,’ he told the cab driver. ‘Chelsea.’
• • •
It was Morrighan who opened the door for him at Monk House.
‘Gabriel. What a lovely surprise. I wasn’t expecting you before tonight.’
‘Sorry. Am I interrupting?’
‘Not at all. Come on in. Minnaloushe isn’t here so you’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.’
As he stepped into the house, he felt his mood lighten. The house was quiet and peaceful. The scent of flowers was everywhere. He followed Morrighan into the kitchen and sat down on a chair.
‘Can I make you some tea?’
‘No, thanks. You get on with whatever you were doing.’
‘I’m taking an inventory,’ she said, turning towards the pine table with the chemistry equipment. ‘It’s long overdue. I’ve been lazy.’
She started counting a number of tiny brown bags and plastic tubs. Muttering something to herself, she paused and made a note in a book which lay open on the table.
‘Are you OK?’ She flicked him a glance.
‘Of course.’
‘You seemed a little agitated when you arrived.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘OK,’ she said amiably and turned towards the table again.
Gabriel watched as she picked up a vial, squinting at the contents. Her movements were sure and practised.
‘So who’s the alchemist here—you or Minnaloushe?’
‘The laboratory is mostly my baby. But we’re both interested in alchemy. I tend to go for a hands-on approach whereas Minnaloushe’s interest in the subject is more cerebral.’ She pursed her lips. ‘The thinker and the doer. As always.’
He leaned back in the chair. He was starting to relax. The argument with Isidore and Frankie suddenly seemed of little importance. All that mattered was that he was here, in Monk House with a lovely, fascinating woman who was happy to have his company. What more could he ask for?
Morrighan was wearing a strappy lacy top. Her black hair fell, cloud-like, over her shoulders. She was beautiful. He suddenly wondered what it would be like to scoop the hair away from her face; to press his lips against the soft skin at the side of her neck…
Manfully he turned his eyes away to study the framed prints on the wall. Not that these prints were designed to make one think of higher things. They seemed to focus on pretty primal emotions. Naked figures hugging, touching fingertips, dancing with pagan abandon in front of bubbling cauldrons. Flames, heat, sweat.
‘Smell this.’ Morrighan held a small tub out to him.
He took a cautious sniff. ‘Is it perfume?’
‘Yes. But solid perfume. You rub it on, you don’t spray it on. We’re thinking of selling it along with our other stuff. Do you like it?’
He wasn’t quite sure. The scent was wild and woody and for some reason made him feel anxious. But it was certainly distinctive.
‘I made it according to alchemical principles. Separate and reassemble. See?’ She lifted her brows. ‘Alchemy can have quite pedestrian uses as well.’
He gestured at the liquid vials and the prints. ‘You have to admit, all of this looks very hocus-pocus.’
‘You don’t believe in magic?’ Her tone of voice was the same as if she had said, ‘You don’t believe the earth is round?’ Surprised incredulity.
‘I can’t say I do.’
‘Nothing has ever happened to you that can’t be explained by the laws of physics?’
Slamming a ride probably qualified, he thought. But remote viewing was free from incantations and spells and he had never picked up even a hint of sulphur.
He shrugged. ‘I suppose there are things that can’t be explained yet, but which will be in future. I don’t think alchemy qualifies. It has already been discredited.’
Morrighan shook her head firmly. ‘Alchemy used to be a highly respected discipline. And many of the great figures of deductive science who openly ridiculed alchemy were actually closet alchemists themselves. Copernicus, Kepler, Bacon. Even Newton tried to discover the secrets of the philosopher’s stone. Some of the alchemists who practised during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance were responsible fo
r breakthrough discoveries in metallurgy, chemistry and medicine. Just think of Paracelsus.’
‘Who he?’
She frowned at his irreverence. ‘He introduced chemical compounds into medicine and described zinc. He was one of history’s greatest physicians and could heal gangrenous limbs, syphilis and ulcers.’ She grinned. ‘He even practised an early form of homoeopathy, treating plague victims with tiny amounts of their own faeces.’
‘Innovative.’
‘I thought you’d be impressed.’ She turned around and gestured at the bottles and jars on the table. ‘I use many of his techniques when making my lotions and drinks.’ She caught the expression on his face. ‘Excrement-free, don’t worry.’
‘Well, the guy sounds like a lateral thinker, I’ll give you that.’
‘And a courageous one. To be a practising alchemist was very dangerous in those times. They met with very sticky ends.’ She paused, frowned again. ‘No, wrong metaphor. They met with very dusty ends. Corpus kaput. They were usually burnt at the stake. Like Bruno here.’ She bent down and stroked the head of the cat, which was rubbing itself against her legs. ‘Isn’t that so, my sweetest sweetheart?’
Gabriel looked on dispassionately. He and the cat had achieved a kind of armed truce. They still disliked each other intensely, but in deference to the ladies they tried not to give in to their mutual animosity. But whenever Gabriel entered the room, Bruno’s tail would start swishing as though animated by an electric current. Minnaloushe and Morrighan thought it funny.
Morrighan looked up at him. ‘You know that Bruno here was named after Giordano Bruno?’
‘Yes. Minnaloushe told me. She said he was a magician.’
‘Most alchemists were, and we’re not talking card tricks. These men were adepts. And very, very powerful.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, if they were able to turn lead into gold, they have my vote.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ She smiled wryly. ‘But that’s not what alchemy was really about. Material transmutation was only one part of it. Alchemy is really the transformation of the spirit into a higher form of consciousness. Enlightenment. Coming face-to-face with God and discovering His motivations for creating the universe and your own place within it. Don’t you think that is a far greater secret than knowing how to exchange one metal for another?’
‘Will you hate me if I say I’d still rather settle for the gold?’
She sighed. ‘You’re a barbarian.’
‘It’s the world we live in. It’s all about money and things which can be measured, perceived and weighed.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘That’s not the world we live in at all. Why,’ she placed one hand on her breast in a strangely ecstatic gesture, ‘don’t you realise… the world is imagination. The world is magic.’
His eyes were drawn to her hand. Her fingers were touching the tattoo of the Monas on her breast: the rose and its enigmatic sign inked into breathtakingly creamy skin. A deeply erotic bruise.
She lowered her hand. ‘Alchemy is fascinating.’
He swallowed. ‘I’m beginning to think it might be.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He was supposed to spend the day with Isidore mining the latest data they had collected on the Pittypats project, but Gabriel did not feel like facing Isidore after their verbal punch-up the previous day. His friend’s self-righteous anger was more than he could deal with right now. And so, instead of heading to Smithfield, he found himself escorting Minnaloushe to a bookshop in north London.
Minnaloushe pulled a footstool towards her and stepped on to it. Extending her arm to its fullest reach, she began to worry two books from a shelf almost out of reach. As he watched, her top rode up to reveal the base of her spine and the Monas in all its delicate intricacy.
It was amazing what a visual punch a few inches of bare skin could deliver, he thought. And how fortunate that he should have the privilege twice in as many days.
She looked over her shoulder and caught him looking. ‘Hey, you.’ She handed him the book. ‘Stop drooling and take this. And no peeping up my blouse.’
He smiled. ‘Sweet pea, I’ve seen it all before. Remember? And much more besides.’
She grinned. ‘So you have. OK. Take a good look.’ And without any self-consciousness, she lifted her top and bent over forward, her hair cascading in front of her face like a waterfall. On the other side of the room a studious-looking young man stared at her and dropped his book. He looked as though someone had hit him over the head, leaving him severely concussed. When he saw Gabriel looking at him he picked up his book abruptly and started reading again. Maybe he was concussed after all. The book was upside down.
Gabriel touched the tattoo lightly. ‘Very nice.’
She straightened and gave him a wicked smile. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘I noticed Morrighan has one too.’
‘We had them done on the same day.’
‘So what does it mean? Make peace, not war? Ban the bomb?’
‘Oh, please. Give us credit for a little originality. It represents the unity of the cosmos.’
‘How Age of Aquarius.’
She swatted his arm. ‘It was designed in the sixteenth century by a magus, no less. A certain John Dee. His personal diaries are kept at your old alma mater: in the Bodleian library at Oxford. What’s really cool, though, is that he’s an ancestor of mine.’
‘Great.’
She put her head to one side. ‘You don’t look nearly impressed enough.’
‘No, I am. Really. Very cool.’ But something about what she just said was bothering him. If only he could put his finger on what it was.
She was now reading from one of the books she had taken from the shelf and her face had assumed a mask of concentration. It made her look almost stern. He had noticed this about her before. There would be something in her eyes or the set of her mouth which—for just a moment—would give him pause. It made him wonder what lurked beneath the playfulness, the femininity, which he associated with her so strongly. There was another side to her that was cool and watchful and determined.
He looked away, his eyes travelling over the rows of books packed murderously tight on the long shelves. At the far end of the room the bookseller was writing something on a blackboard. She was slim and had a delicate oval face with brown hair springing from her forehead in a widow’s peak. Just like Frankie. Frankie who had looked at him yesterday with disappointment. Her face etched with strain.
No. He shut his mind deliberately to the image. He wasn’t going to allow himself a guilt trip. He had nothing to feel guilty about.
Minnaloushe replaced the first book she had taken off the shelf and opened the second one. He was standing slightly behind her, to one side, and was able to catch a glimpse of the contents of the book as she riffled through the pages. They appeared to be filled with watercolours but the scenes they depicted were not exactly pastoral. Fire seemed to be the prevailing motif. And caught in the flames were women in flowing robes, their bodies writhing in anguish but their faces eerily serene. It was rather shocking.
‘Witches.’ Minnaloushe’s voice was dispassionate. She hadn’t looked up from the book in her hands but she must have sensed his reaction. ‘Or, rather, women perceived to be witches.’
‘Perceived by whom?’
‘Oh, men. Men scared by the idea of women wanting to know the great secrets. Scared of other things too. Like female sexuality.’ She slammed the book shut. ‘Do you know how they used to test for witches?’
He shook his head.
‘They’d throw the woman in a river with weights tied to her feet. If she sank, she was innocent. If she floated, she was a witch. Or they’d throw her off a high cliff to see if she could fly. In many seventeenth-century records of English witchcraft trials you’ll find the words “not guilty, no flying”. Which means, of course, that these women literally had to die in order to prove their innocence.’
She stepped on to the stool again a
nd pushed the thick tome back into place. It was much bigger than the other books on the shelf and stuck out awkwardly.
As they stepped through the wide doors that would lead them outside, he looked back. Even from this far away, he was still able to see the black leather book with its spine jutting out like an accusing finger. He shivered.
But it was sunny outside and the uneasiness he had felt inside the bookshop was dissipating. It was lunchtime and they bought sandwiches from Marks & Spencer to eat in Regent’s Park. From her capacious bag, Minnaloushe also extracted a bottle and two plastic cups.
‘I came prepared,’ she said, grinning at him.
‘Morrighan’s?’
‘Of course. Drink up. Good for you.’
They ate slowly and in silence. Across from them an exhibitionist type was taking off his shirt and oiling himself. Gabriel had to admit he had an imposing physique: all coiled muscles and rock-hard abs. And he had the ‘I’m-so-cool-can-you-stand-it’ look down pat. Minnaloushe was staring unashamedly.
She glanced over at Gabriel and caught his sardonic smile. ‘He’s cute,’ she admitted.
‘I could tell from your expression.’
‘But he’s still a baby. It will take another ten years or so before he’s interesting. Men don’t become worth your while until they’re in their thirties.’
‘At least I make the cut, then.’
‘Well, it’s not automatic with all men, you know.’
‘Right.’
‘With women, of course, it’s different. Women are born interesting.’ She dimpled again and flopped down flat onto the grass.
He poured some more wine into his cup, watching her. She was lying with her arms spread-eagled, her eyes closed. Hair like Spanish moss. Was this his love, he wondered for the hundredth time. Are you the girl who can hear the sun set? Who likes to dive to the bottom of an ocean where the floor is made of glass and where fish get lost on purpose?
What if he simply asked her? ‘Minnaloushe, I’ve been snooping on you and your sister. I think one of you is a killer. But the other one writes the most intriguing diary and I’ve fallen in love with her. Is it you?’
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