Finn peered in at the window, immediately seeing Narbondo, who stood at a high table, perhaps eight feet long and half as wide, built like a butcher’s block and heavily stained. On the table in front of him sat a human skull, although something had been done to it, for the top of it shone silver in the lamplight as if the bone had been removed and the skull had been crowned with metal. Finn was stricken with the same diabolical unease that he had felt when he was first in Narbondo’s presence – something in his face? He had seen many faces more frightful by far. This was something else, something best not considered too particularly, lest he attract some sort of hellish attention. “Naming calls,” his mother used to say, and Finn had no desire to call forth anything.
The room itself intensified the feeling. Ring-bolts had been set into the sides of the table, useful, no doubt, for strapping things down. The room was clearly a surgeon’s cabinet, and held two wooden chairs and another small table with a basin and pitcher atop it. An ochre-stained coat hung on the wall along with dozens of surgical tools – clamps and bone saws and knives and a heavy butcher’s cleaver, and other appalling instruments that Finn couldn’t identify and didn’t care to. Leather-covered chains, both long and short, hung among the rest. A human skeleton dangled from a hook in the low ceiling, its arms outstretched and fixed with slender iron rods as if it were crucified. On shelves stood a variety of human and animal skulls as well as organs floating in liquid-filled jars, one of which was half full of human eyeballs.
Narbondo stepped around behind the table now, blocking Finn’s view. He bent over, evidently fiddling with the skull, from which an intense light shone forth. Finn felt abruptly as if he was being watched, and he looked around him, seeing no one. He recalled the corpse candle near the road two nights ago, how he had felt the living consciousness of the ghost of the hanged boy. This was something similar – not someone watching him, but some entity that had come into the room. He sensed a great sorrow and fear and anger, principally anger, not a child this time.
He deliberately moved his mind away from the fell presence and watched Narbondo, who had crossed the room to fetch a three-tiered, wheeled tea cart on which sat a glass box perhaps three-feet high and one-foot deep and wide, built of a framework of thin metal. Finn saw then that it was in fact two boxes, one inside the other. Narbondo pushed the cart into the path of the light emanating from the skull, and when he stepped away Finn saw the entity itself – the palely visible doll-sized ghost of a woman, its transparent image hovering within the glass boxes.
There was a large leather bellows affixed to the side of a wooden box on the middle shelf, the mouth of the bellows connected to a coiled tube that entered the boxes, running through the outer box and into the inner. Finn was reminded of the pineapple barrow in Angel Alley, except that the smell of hot syllabub was missing. A slender pole hanging from a ceiling beam held a broad glass lens in front of the boxes. Narbondo maneuvered the lens down into the light now, positioning it in order to peer through it at the glowing homunculus imprisoned within the glass walls.
Finn heard the noise of an approaching carriage now, very close by, and apparently Narbondo heard it also, for he set out up the stairs to the room above, leaving the trapdoor open behind him. He would find his breakfast, Finn thought, and someone would cop it for having left it there. That would perhaps start a general search, which would be the beginning of the end for Finn Conrad. He heard voices within the cottage now, and he saw Narbondo descend into the cellar again, followed by a man and a woman. Both stopped when they reached the floor, where they stood and stared, first at the glowing glass boxes with the image of the woman within them and then at the source of the light – the skull on the table.
The man wore a black top hat and was tall and imposing, with gray hair and a narrow face, his features reminding Finn of a bloody-minded weasel. The woman had raven hair beneath her hat, her face covered by a black veil. It’s him, Finn thought suddenly, recognizing the man as the one who had been in Narbondo’s rooms last night. He had worn chin whiskers and a pince-nez and an obvious wig, but it was his Lordship, to be certain, undisguised now – or so Narbondo had called him. Last night he had drawn back into the corner of the room when the crackers exploded, fearful of gunfire, and then had lunged at Finn and Eddie at the last moment, and might have had them if he hadn’t been timid. Clearly the man hadn’t wanted to be identified, nor had he been keen to involve himself in any sort of danger. No wonder, Finn thought: he had a face that might be recognized on the street easily enough – a public figure, involved in low deeds.
Being veiled, the woman’s face was impossible to read, but his Lordship affected a look of tired indifference. He removed his top hat and set it on the table.
“Very interesting work,” he said, taking in the entrapped ghost and the skull with a broad gesture.
“This particular skull inhabited the head of a common prostitute. I took it on loan.” Narbondo smiled at them, but got no response. “But come,” he said, “I promised you an assurance of my powers, and an assurance you shall have. It will cost me this valuable skull, over which I’ve toiled, but I believe that it will give you an idea of the impending calamity. You and your consortium – I believe that’s the cant term – can be easy in your minds.”
Narbondo drew the lens downward, peering through it again, and for a moment Finn had a clear view of the ghost’s startling visage. There was an appearance of intense, raw loathing radiating from it that Finn could sense quite clearly – more clearly than he could see it. He saw Narbondo recoil from it, and then hurriedly draw the great lens downward so that the light from the skull shone through it. A ray of pure white light illuminated the two boxes now, and the ghost vanished within that light, the intensity of its fierce emotion diminishing. Narbondo pressed the handle of the bellows half a dozen times, and a dark powder – coal dust, Finn supposed – flew out of the hose and swirled within the inner box, the ghost suddenly reappearing, showing plainly now against the suspended dust, looking almost solid and apparently cognizant that it was trapped within a glass coffin.
“You’d be advised to step back,” Narbondo said as the glow within the boxes intensified. There was a penetrating wail in the air roundabout now, the sound of a mourner keening for the dead, a high note at the very edge of apprehension. The glow formed itself into a tiny sun, which began to smoke. Narbondo ceased pressing the bellows and stepped away himself, putting out his arm to sweep the other two even farther back, nearly to the window beyond which Finn watched. If they had looked behind them now, they would have seen him, but there was no chance of that, for they watched intently as the light in the box redoubled in intensity and then redoubled again. The keening noise rose to a higher and higher pitch, and then the interior of the box flashed brightly.
There was the sound of a muffled explosion, very small to Finn’s ear, and in that instant the ghost erupted into a mass of bright sparks that spun for a moment in the void, accompanied by the sound of an inhuman shriek. The sparks winked out, and for a moment the box appeared to have flattened, taking on the semblance of an open door, beyond which lay an infinite darkness, the shriek echoing away into the void.
Finn was compelled to look away, his heart hammering with a dark fear. He watched a white crane fly low above the pond, its neck outstretched, the gray-black feathers spread along the edges of the white wings. When it had disappeared from sight, Finn took in a deep breath and turned back to the window. The light from the skull had gone out. A wisp of smoke arose from it, and there was the smell of sulfur and burning metal on the air. Around the skull the wooden table was aflame, a small circle of white witch fire. Narbondo looked about himself, shrugged, picked up Lord Moorgate’s top hat, and dropped it over the skull. He pushed the magnifying lens up toward the ceiling, rolled the tea cart back into its place, and lit a second Argand lamp on a shelf above it, casting a light on the glass boxes – or rather a single box now, for the interior box had been shattered in the explosion. The ext
erior box had contained the blast, although the very heavy glass in the front panel had cracked in half and opened outward like a clamshell now.
“And so the vitality of the skull has been consumed,” Narbondo said, “and the soul whisked away to the netherworld. You felt the darkness of that place when the door opened, I’ll warrant. I saw it in your face, Lord Moorgate.”
“I felt something, yes, although nothing that warrants my driving out into this godforsaken marsh.” Moorgate’s voice, intended to be commanding, quavered slightly too much to be persuasive. “You meant for this display to be an example of your powers, sir, and you ask me to take it on faith that something similar will bring down the cathedral, which is many hundreds of times the size of your trifling glass boxes. Your powers are impressive, but on a very small scale – scarcely the sort of assurance we had in mind. The Bayswater Club and Fleet River debacles were entertaining, but comparatively simple.”
Narbondo shrugged. “It pains me to have fallen out of your good graces, my lord. I’m desolated, I assure you.”
“You see fit to jest. I’ll put it to you simply. My associates and I have done our part at great expense. You promised us the skull of the boy in payment, fully realized. In anticipation I had de Groot purchase one of the miniaturized lamps at considerable expense. I paid out a substantial sum to further our project, including hiring a man to produce forged letters that will damn that traitor Gladstone for good and all, indeed, will hang him. I’ve another twenty-five thousand pounds promised to see the plan through till the end. Our friend in the War Office tells me that everything is arranged. My man de Groot will make a payment as soon as he hears from me, and will deliver another sum when the thing is finished. All he needs in order to carry it out is the money, which is laid by. I’ve risked my career, my very life, in other words, in order to further both our goals, but aside from this… display, this teapot tempest… you, sir, have done nothing but make empty promises.”
“Your political aspirations bore me, Lord Moorgate,” Narbondo said, “as does the phantom noose that encircles your hypothetical head. We both stand to profit by this venture, but only if it’s successful. My cheating you would scarcely lead to its success.”
“My thinking exactly. I’ve been given to understand that you’ve offered to ransom the boy to his father for a sum equal to what I’ve agreed to give to my man in the War Office. I don’t make any accusations, but it seems to me uncommon possible that you’ve promised the boy to two different parties, standing to gain twice if only you can hold out another day or so. Last night you were in London. Today I find you in the marsh. Heaven knows where you’ll be next week, after the deed has been done.”
“Heaven keeps no track of my comings and goings, I can assure you. I’ll remind you that I did you the favor of letting you know where I was bound, for here you both are. I could scarcely remain in the rookery.”
Moorgate waved the statement away, as if it didn’t signify. “I mean to say that time is short, as you very well know. You promised to contrive a lamp from the skull of the boy, but you haven’t undertaken to do it. I’m compelled to believe that you keep the boy alive because you mean to play us false if you can find a way.”
“You’re a bold man, Lord Moorgate. Once again you’ve come into my domain and made unwarranted assertions. I’ve only to whistle, and ten bloodthirsty men will come running. Perhaps you would like a turn atop the table here, my lord? Your own skull shows great promise.” Narbondo gestured at the surgical instruments on the wall, his downturned face looking wantonly demonic.
It came into Finn’s mind that nothing would serve his own endeavors more than immediate bloodshed in this underground room, if only to draw men away from the inn. He waited anxiously, watching Lord Moorgate’s face, which was set like a stone mask, his hand under his coat now – a pistol, perhaps. The woman stood very still.
“I jest,” Narbondo said after a desperately long moment. He smiled at the two. “I assure you that I had no intention of turning the boy over to his father. I merely hoped that the man would be foolhardy enough to bring me the ransom money, in which case I intended to relieve him of his life and his purse at one stroke. You’ll agree that the scenario would have been monstrously comical. Come, tell me plainly what you want. Give me an opportunity to put things right. And you’re free to remove your veil, my dear. I make it a habit of knowing my confederates. We all have our secrets, and so be it, but the veil carries things a trifle too far.”
Moorgate reached out and snatched the woman’s veil from her face, yanking off her hat in the process. He tore the veil from the hat, pitched the veil onto the floor, and then gave her the hat back. She restored it to the top of her head while fixing Moorgate with a hateful look.
“Meet Helen,” Moorgate said to Narbondo. “Even I’m not certain it’s her actual name, but you can trust her. I do, as far as it goes.”
Narbondo bowed obsequiously. “Charmed,” he said, looking at her intently, as if he saw something in her face.
“We’ve come to witness the boy’s head separated from his body,” Moorgate said. “Such a display would demonstrate your commitment to our joint endeavor. I applaud your attempt to profit by squeezing the boy’s father, but now that the effort has failed, you’ve no reason to want the boy alive. I’ve promised you… head-money, as they say, and so I want my head. I want it now, and I want to see your own hands red with the boy’s blood, and not his hypothetical blood. I’ll have my way with this or I’ll send to de Groot informing him to cease payment to the War Office and to call off Mr. Fox. He awaits my word.”
“You’ve taken precautions. Good. I like a cautious man. And perhaps you’ve also got a small craving to see the operation transpire?” Narbondo leered at him.
“I’ve got such a craving,” the woman said, the first words she’d spoken. “And then I’d like my breakfast.”
“Excellent,” Narbondo said, clapping his palms together as if he were quite pleased. “I’ll send someone to fetch the boy.”
Finn stood as if frozen, his mind comprehending this last exchange, but unable to resolve their words in any sensible way.
THIRTY ONE
THE MESSAGE ARRIVES
Alice brushed another layer of Langdon’s experimental fixative over the head of the pike. The mixture smelled of varnish and triple-refined spirits. She had done a neat job of severing the prodigious head, which was larger than she had anticipated. The pike had weighed over three stone, and it was unlikely that she would ever catch a larger. He had nearly foxed her again yesterday, running in under a hole in the bank half blocked with stones, but Alice had waded in after him, in order to keep the line straight and free. The battle had lasted twenty minutes, with Cleo and Mrs. Langley on the bank shouting advice.
The process of hardening the flesh required twelve coats of the varnish, inside and out, but because the varnish was so awfully hot, as Langdon had put it – chemically hot – it dried quickly, especially in the summer heat, and she had already applied the requisite number of coats to the inside of the scoured-out skull earlier today, which she had filled with a mixture of hide glue and smashed clinkers. She had thrust two bolts into it, which were now cemented tightly in place, and which would hold the head to its wooden plaque.
She had awakened before dawn this morning, unable to fall back to sleep, and had roused herself out of bed before her idle mind became active. She had set to work on the wooden table in the gallery, which had a view of the wisteria alley through the wire mesh over the windows. Now and then she pictured Langdon and Hasbro turning off the road and appearing beneath the wisteria, Eddie sitting between them on the seat of the wagon. She knew that picturing it wouldn’t make it so, but it was a picture that was welcome in her mind, and which kept out other pictures not so welcome. She turned the pike’s head to catch the sunlight coming in through the screen, wondering whether she had any glass eyes in her collection that would fit the empty sockets.
The door opened behind h
er now and Mrs. Langley entered, looking unhappily at the head of the pike. “The smell of that mixture is mortal!” she said. “You might perhaps take it outside, ma’am. We can set a table up in the open field, under a shade. It’s a lovely day.”
“You’re right, of course,” Alice told her. “I’ve become quite used to it, but now that you mention it my head is swimming.” She capped the jar of varnish, put her brushes into a bowl of turpentine and followed Mrs. Langley into the kitchen, where Cleo stood on a chair, mixing something in a bowl with a long wooden spoon.
“We’re making scones,” Cleo said. “With bits of cherries.”
“For a nice tea,” Mrs. Langley put in. And then, in a lower voice, she said to Alice, “I inquired in the village this morning about Mr. Marchand, ma’am, the zookeeper. He’s very much alive, apparently, although ancient. Living in Maidstone, I’m told. His younger brother Bennett keeps the books at the paper mill on Hanley Road.” She looked furtively at Cleo now, who was apparently paying no attention. “The younger Mr. Marchand has informed me that the… item of interest might indeed be purchased for a sum. A rather substantial sum, ma’am, but well within the stated limits.”
“Splendid,” Alice said. “You put our plan into motion, then?”
“I did. Are you certain it’s… That it’s quite… reasonable, ma’am?”
“No, indeed. It’s utterly unreasonable, Mrs. Langley, and therein lies its attraction. I’ve come to suspect that reason is a much overrated commodity.”
The Aylesford Skull Page 26