The Lucifer Chord

by F. G. Cottam

  ‘They didn’t kill you,’ Ruthie said.

  ‘They dismissed me as a groupie,’ Paula said. ‘In today’s language, I was arm-candy. And even if I was more than that, what rock star in the ’70s ever confided anything in their old lady?’

  ‘But Terry Maloney knew.’

  ‘To anyone outside the band, Terry was just a roadie. To the inner circle, he was so much more. He was a part of the inner circle. He was probably the person Martin trusted most.’

  ‘I’d say that was you,’ Ruthie said.

  ‘OK. The man Martin trusted most.’

  ‘Not Carter Melville?’

  ‘Never Carter Melville,’ Paula said.

  Terry going public about the trusted fixer he really was in the Ghost Legion era might make him the same sort of vulnerable target McCoy and Prentice had been. It made him much more likely to have been a party to Martin’s secret. It practically made him a member of the band. And the Jericho Society were intent on destroying Martin’s artistic legacy.

  ‘Because they never forget and they never forgive,’ Ruthie said. ‘Yet Carter Melville is still in the best of health.’

  ‘Which kind of makes you wonder,’ Paula said.

  ‘Because he’s the gatekeeper, or the engine, or the master of ceremonies or whatever metaphor you want to use. Sir Terence is a merchant banker, a respected figure in the City, these days. That’s what got him his gong. More than anyone, Carter Melville is Ghost Legion now.’

  Paula didn’t comment.

  Ruthie said, ‘Unless you count Eddie Coyle.’

  Paula remained silent. Then she belched audibly. Then she said, ‘He’s just a fucking idiot.’

  Which made both women laugh.

  Matters got a bit bleary after that. They ate lunch at the pub and then drank and chatted until 6 pm when they wobbled their way arm-in-arm for ballast to the Bistro in Pier Street. After dinner, they went back to Ruthie’s cottage, where Paula was shown up to the spare bedroom.

  ‘I used to be able to do this,’ she said.

  ‘I need to pick up my bike,’ Ruthie said.

  ‘Your bike can wait, hon.’

  In her own room, Ruthie peeled off her clothes and climbed into bed and was asleep in seconds. Her night wasn’t, though, untroubled. She dreamed of a death’s head in a top hat and a monocle, crooning music-hall ditties through chattering teeth.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ruthie returned to the mainland on the noon ferry on Thursday sufficiently rested not to be feeling any ill-effects from her shared session with Paula the previous day. Before leaving, Paula gave her a lift in her Porsche to the edge of Brightstone Forest to retrieve her bike. Ruthie pedalled back more or less oblivious to the spectacular coastal charms of her scenic route. The island had been a tolerable place for her in the company of Paula. Alone, she still found it all but unendurable. The memories were too fresh, the wounds too raw. She had no doubt whatsoever that Paula was right and that tentative wouldn’t do it with Michael Aldridge. But tentative was how she honestly felt.

  Carter Melville called her on the ferry. He asked her about her visit to the Fischer House and she told him it had been uneventful. She told him about the old gramophone player and the shellac records lying brittle and shattered around it. She thought the symbolism interesting on two counts. Fischer’s mansion had once been a place of debauched parties raucously celebrated, very rock and roll for their time. And the gramophone was the elderly ancestor of what Martin’s records had been played on in the time of his own pomp.

  ‘It’s a nice detail,’ Carter agreed.

  She didn’t tell him about the owner of the plummy voice inhabiting the bathroom off Klaus Fischer’s smoking room. She didn’t tell him about the intervention of Paula Tort.

  ‘Was there a brand name on that gramophone?’

  ‘His Master’s Voice.’

  ‘The little black and white dog logo. Did you take a photo?’

  ‘Yes. On my phone.’

  ‘They’re HMV now,’ Carter said, chuckling. ‘They just put in a humungous order for the Legion box-set.’

  His master’s voice. Suddenly Ruthie thought she knew what had happened when Martin had been there composing King Lud. She could picture it, she could hear it. He had protection.

  Ruthie got back to Veronica Slade’s flat just before five o’clock. She tried to make some notes about structure, to plan the shape of what she intended to write, to outline a thematic narrative. She could just write chronologically. Which would be straightforward enough. Or she could begin by deconstructing the mythology to reveal the man more truthfully than had ever been done before.

  As she saw it, her problems were two-fold. Carter Melville had called Martin Mear a Russian doll of a man, layer upon layer revealed until almost nothing was left. Paula Tort had described someone who carefully compartmentalized himself, so that everyone got someone different. To some extent, April Mear had borne this out, painting a verbal portrait of a kind and dedicated father with a strong inclination for isolating himself from the world. Yet he was also the consummate showman, able to dominate an audience of thousands with his potent projection of talent and sheer charisma. It didn’t add up at all. Tightening the focus seemed to Ruthie all but impossible.

  The second, insurmountable problem was the dishonesty. Ruthie wasn’t going to betray her promise to Paula and reveal the fact that Martin’s death had been faked. She had anyway surrendered her proof of that. And she wasn’t prepared to go public on the Jericho Society and Martin’s involvement with and eventual rejection of that. They were tenacious about their secrecy. They were spiteful and they were deadly.

  The chalice that had come into the possession of Veronica’s auction house had originally been used by the Jericho Society in ceremonies at their Boston temple on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. Its owner had been the descendent of a G-man involved in the FBI raid on that in the 1920s. The temple had been bulldozed to rubble, the ground sown with salt and their sacrament performed by two powerful exorcists from the Boston Diocese. The rubble had been dumped in the harbour. But the chalice had been looted from the temple first.

  Now, the chalice resided in the trophy room at Quantico. And the FBI were newly aware that the Jericho Society were still active. That was a situation for which Ruthie Gillespie, Veronica Slade and Michael Aldridge all bore partial responsibility. They could be blamed. It would be extremely unwise for Ruthie to draw their attention to her. Except, she thought, she was probably already on their radar. Why hadn’t they at the very least intimidated her, frightened her off? She was growing more and more convinced that there could be only one reason for that. They believed Martin was still alive, somewhere. And they believed the access she had to the people in his life could give her the necessary clues as to his whereabouts. She might lead them to him and in so doing, provide them with a useful service.

  And if she did so, where would that leave her? She’d be a witness they’d need to silence in the way they’d already silenced Malcolm Stuart and Ginger McCabe. She’d die as she slept in her burning cottage in the manner of Patsy McCoy. Like James Prentice, she’d have a car accident. Or she’d just get knocked off her Pashley bike in a fatal hit and run on one of Wight’s lonelier roads when she finally discovered in herself the gumption to go home.

  Her phone rang. It was Eddie Coyle. ‘We’re staging a bigger event on Sunday.’

  ‘My forehead’s healing quite nicely, thank you.’

  ‘Carter Melville thinks you should attend.’

  ‘I spoke to him this morning, Eddie. He would have mentioned it.’

  ‘He’s only just learned about it from me.’

  ‘Another Neolithic site?’

  ‘Remote spot on the Portuguese coast. So remote that my accommodation there’s a forest hunting lodge. Sleeps ten and there’s a berth for you if you want it.’

  ‘How many of these do you honestly think I should do? I’m not like one of those people with a compulsion to see The So
und of Music or Les Misérables every night for a year.’

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve got every record the Cure ever made, though.’

  ‘What’s that to do with anything?’

  ‘This one’s going to be huge,’ Eddie Coyle said, ‘maybe the final precursor to the actual event.’

  ‘Then you’d be wise to wear your wellies and cagoule,’ Ruthie said. ‘It’ll probably piss down.’

  Portugal was where Frederica Daunt and her father were. If Sebastian would agree to talk to her, she could kill two birds with one stone. The air fare wouldn’t be an issue, if Carter wanted her in Portugal anyway.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, touching the spot, bruised and scabbing, just below her hairline tenderly.

  ‘Splendid, Ruthie. Let me know if you need a ride from the airport. I’ll sort something.’

  She called Frederica Daunt. ‘I’m in Portugal on Sunday. Would your dad agree to speak to me on Monday?’

  ‘Off the record, yes.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Stay the night. We’ll have a few drinks and I’ll break out the Ouija board.’

  ‘That’s a terrible idea.’

  ‘I’m joking, Ruthie. Where’s your sense of humour?’

  ‘I’ve hidden it under a bushel for the duration.’

  ‘What’s a bushel?’

  ‘I’ve never been quite sure.’

  ‘The duration of what?’

  ‘This job I’m supposed to be doing.’

  It was seven o’clock before Ruthie remembered that Veronica would be home late. She had some sort of event to attend concerning one of the few living artists regularly to feature in the sales room of her auction house. Champagne and canapes and probably quite a bit of gossip and name-dropping. There were aspects of her job Veronica was quietly contemptuous about, but she was well paid and her position was a prestigious one. She was closer career-wise to Paula’s black Porsche than she was to Ruthie’s black Pashley bicycle.

  Ruthie debated how much to tell Veronica about what had gone on at Klaus Fischer’s house and afterwards. It was a question of how much comfort she’d gain from confiding in her friend, versus the jeopardy the knowledge might put Veronica in as someone party to something secret. Ruthie already had one Fischer House confidante in Paula Tort. She thought she’d spare Veronica anything that might in the future endanger her.

  At 8 pm Ruthie opened a bottle of Chablis. She sat in the darkness in the garden to drink it. Though in reality it was never that dark in this part of London, there was too much ambient light from the streets and surrounding buildings. She’d briefly entertained the idea of going and sitting outside the Pineapple just to be surrounded by other people, but she didn’t want to risk seeing the split-screen Morris Minor float past, its small engine singing, a featureless man under a blond swatch of hair eyeing her incuriously as he drove by in a curious parallel world extinct, she knew, sixty years ago.

  Michael Aldridge called her at nine o’clock. He said, ‘How busy are you over the weekend?’

  She remembered that he didn’t have Mollie. This weekend was her mum’s. Tentative, Ruthie thought. She said, ‘You’ve got tomorrow evening and all of Saturday, Mr A.’

  ‘And Saturday night?’

  ‘Early start Sunday. Catching a flight.’

  ‘I can give you a lift to the airport.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Anywhere exotic?’

  ‘The Algarve,’ she said.

  ‘Nice this time of the year.’

  ‘It’s just for a couple of days. And it’s work.’ If the lunacy of the Clamouring could be described as work.

  ‘What have you been up to since Tuesday morning?’

  She would tell Michael everything, she decided. He already knew the big secret, that Martin Mear had faked his death. There would be no betrayal of Paula, Ruthie didn’t think, in appraising him of the rest. Paula was right about Michael. Tentative wasn’t going to do it. She had to be committed for anything to have a chance of working. Besides, he was her ally. He was on her side. He was one of only three people she completely trusted in all this. April Mear might yet make that number four. But Michael’s was the name at the top of the list.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d met Paula Tort.’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ he said.

  ‘Not good enough, Mr A.’

  ‘She was looking to have a pile restored out in deepest Sussex. She’d been told it was Jacobean, but that wasn’t the full story. Rarely is, with large old houses. Parts of it were Tudor and some of it was older than that. The original rectangular tower was probably built at the time of the Plantagenet kings and the chapel in the grounds was Norman.’

  ‘It had its own chapel?’

  ‘Extensive grounds, loads of character, even a lake.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘The interior required a lot of work. But the shell was intact,’ Michael said. ‘So no problem with water penetration. I told her it would be a very expensive commitment and she should take her time making a decision.’

  ‘Very noble.’

  ‘I try to be fair.’

  ‘She’s a good-looking woman.’

  ‘She certainly is. But she’s a bit mature for me, Ruthie. If that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You made an impression.’

  ‘Which is flattering,’ he said, ‘but the only person I want to make an impression on is you.’

  ‘You’ll have your opportunity to do that tomorrow evening.’

  ‘And I intend to take it,’ he said.

  Ruthie went back inside after this conversation concluded. She brushed her teeth and drank a glass of water and was about to hit the sack when Veronica came in.

  ‘Good evening?’

  ‘I’ve just seen the cutest little car,’ Veronica said, unbuttoning her coat, face flushed from the champagne she’d drunk. ‘Parked at the end of the road. Drove off, just as I turned the corner. Old Morris Minor in fabulous condition. Split windscreen and everything. I know cars aren’t your thing, darling, but this little beauty ticked all the boxes.’

  Ruthie met Michael Aldridge at Surbiton station at seven o’clock on Friday evening. They walked the route to the Waggon and Horses. She told him in precise detail about her visit to Klaus Fischer’s ruined, not quite uninhabited mansion. She told him about her rescue literally at the hands of Paula Tort. He listened in silence, his face unreadable. When she’d finished, he said, ‘What do you know about Klaus Fischer?’

  ‘Not much. He disappeared in 1927. The same year the Jericho Redoubt outside Ventnor was destroyed in an arson attack.’

  ‘Do you think Fischer was a Jericho Society acolyte?’

  ‘He had an interest in the occult,’ Ruthie said. ‘Aleister Crowley was a guest at his parties. Martin Mear probably learned about the existence of the Fischer House from his Uncle Max during his occult grooming. The truthful answer is that I don’t know.’ She sipped from her drink. ‘Have you ever come across anything like my experience? You’ve been in a lot of old buildings.’

  Michael thought about this. Eventually he said, ‘It’s a matter of contamination, I think. Can bricks and mortar become diseased, pestilent? Most people who’ve visited Bergen-Belsen would probably say yes. But very few people will admit to having seen a ghost.’

  ‘I didn’t see a ghost,’ Ruthie said. ‘It might just have been a sense memory.’

  ‘Chucking top hats around?’

  ‘Whatever it was deliberately scared me,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you just want to walk away from all this?’

  Ruthie pondered that. Then she sat back in her chair and said, ‘I think Martin Mear’s still alive. I think I know where to find him. I don’t think I’ll stop till I do.’

  ‘Someone’s killing people, Ruthie.’

  ‘And I think I know who that is. But knowing it and proving it are quite different.’

  On Saturday they went to Hampton Court. The weather rema
ined benign, autumnal, the trees gorgeously coloured on the towpath on the other side of the river from where they waited for the ferry turning. They ate breakfast at the Riverside Café before getting on the boat.

  ‘You do this all the time, with Mollie, don’t you?’ Ruthie said.

  Michael nodded. ‘It’s become a bit of a ritual,’ he said. ‘It’s a nice change to do it in the company of someone grown-up.’

  ‘What’s the biggest difference?’

  ‘I won’t struggle to get you out of the gift shop.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ she said.

  They toured the Tudor buildings. Ruthie paused in the Whispering Gallery but didn’t sense its rumoured ghosts. They saw the room in which a hundred pikemen slept nightly to protect the king when Henry the serial monogamist sat heavily on England’s throne. They walked through the gardens and risked the famous maze. They ate lunch at the Tiltyard Café.

  ‘You’re still hurting, aren’t you?’

  It wasn’t even a question, really. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ruthie said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Michael said. ‘These things take time.’

  ‘Will you give me time?’

  ‘I don’t really think it’s mine to give. But the answer’s yes.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Eddie Coyle met her personally at Arrivals at Faro airport after an uneventful flight at four in the afternoon. The location of the gathering was about two hours by car, he said. His ride was a soft-top Jeep, the choice of a Land Rover man gone reluctantly Continental. He was decked out like a squire, or maybe a member of the rural rock band Jethro Tull in the mid-1970s. Ruthie hadn’t even known you could still get leather waistcoats. And she thought corduroy trousers probably a bit warm for Portugal in October.

  He had the top rolled down, so Ruthie felt less guilty than she would have otherwise about smoking in the front passenger seat. Flying wasn’t something she enjoyed and she felt entitled to a post-flight cigarette to calm her nerves.

  Coyle didn’t say much on the journey. He seemed a less confident man playing away from home, unless he was just preoccupied with thoughts of the spectacle to come. Ruthie speculated on the pyrotechnics of the ritual. This was a bigger event, he’d said, a much more serious deal. Maybe it would provoke hailstones the size of tennis balls or rain frogs. Likelier sardines, she thought. Sardines were very popular on the coast of Portugal.