by Syd Moore
He was pig-headedly standing his ground. ‘Look, Rosie just get in, will you? You’re stopping traffic.’
‘I’m not getting in there with you! You get out. I’m driving. It’s my car.’ I folded my arms.
He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and snapped it shut. I saw his head bob as he breathed out then he squeezed across the handbrake on to the passenger seat.
I whizzed in.
Now defeated, he was beginning to seethe. ‘You really are something else, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said, and pulled off into the middle lane. ‘One of a kind. Aren’t you lucky?’
We managed a terse quarter of an hour of silent fuming before we got into the City of London proper.
Despite thick patches of grey, the sun was trying to pop out. It managed ten minutes as we headed west to Embankment. A view of the Thames and the elegant tree-lined boulevards briefly raised my spirits and made me forget about our recent fracas. Things had been going okay before that, we’d hardly argued at all. Oh well, a timely reminder that he was not Mr Perfect, I rued, and let my eyes trail the classic tourist postcard vista: the dark rippling mirror of river that reflected back whatever you felt, riverboats and clippers, the bankside grand buildings, courts with ancient ‘temple’ names, excited tourists and dolphin-wrapped lamp posts.
I wound the window down to let in some fresh air but got a lungful of fumes, despite the fact the roads were clearer than during the week, so wound it up again while Sam directed me, through gritted teeth, to the car park of a new hotel. Here, according to a text, Ray Boundersby had organised a parking space for us. The hotel was an impressive-looking place with a little courtyard and a handy subterranean car park.
Once we’d sorted out the details with the receptionist we weaved our way on foot through the narrow backstreets and alleys until we popped out on to Fleet Street.
I didn’t know this part of the City very well. I’d once had a temp job further east, in Leadenhall Market, a tiny but well-preserved Victorian arcade made famous by various films. But it hadn’t lasted long. The market was always chock-full of suits and Harry Potter tourists seeking out Diagon Alley. I didn’t mind either group particularly, it was just they took up so much room. Every day walking from the Tube to work you had to jostle with other pedestrians for foot space. Then every time you walked back you had to keep your place in the herd or get trampled underfoot. At least that was what it felt like.
Thank goodness today was fairly calm. We passed a walking group. Their tour guide was pointing west towards a needle-shaped monolith with a dragon on the top, Temple Bar, explaining that it commemorated the old entrance to the City of London. The gate itself, I overheard the guide saying, had been on a bit of a journey and now resided in Paternoster Square where they were off to next. A blond-haired young man with dreadlocks stopped in front of us, took a gigantic camera out of his backpack and started clicking.
Sam and I politely waited for him to finish, apologised, then crossed the street.
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ said Sam, as we scampered to the middle. ‘To think that this was once the headquarters of the British newspaper industry.’
I dashed across the second lane and on to the pavement. ‘In a few years’ time people will think it’s weird that there were ever newspapers at all.’
‘That’s rather pessimistic,’ said Sam catching up with me. ‘You don’t believe that they’ll endure?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘They’re on the brink of extinction. News is a minute-by-minute phenomenon now. Daily papers can’t keep up with that. They’ll have to go online or become history.’
‘Do you mind that?’ Sam asked. I shot him a quick look to check his mood. But it was too quick – we were in the middle of the road after all. I only clocked his decisive jaw. I liked it. Always looked like he meant business. And his thrust. See, there was a power to both his frame and IQ that was impressive and at the same time unnerving to see in an academic. His convictions were the only thing about him that were a bit baggy. Some of them anyway. Personally I preferred things firm – black and white. Sam and the museum though, they were full of shifting grey shadows. In fact, I had to say, they’d inspired a few contradictions to sprout within myself. The bugger was I couldn’t nip down the salon and have them lasered off.
‘I mean,’ said Sam, bringing me out of my brief contemplation. ‘Would it bother you if that whole industry disappeared?’
‘Doesn’t matter if I mind or not. It’s going to happen,’ I said, glimpsing my reflection in a shop window. ‘Evolution.’ I flicked the bottom section of my hair, the blonde part, over my shoulders. It looked neater like that. The ends were getting way too dry and frazzled. This dip dye was going to have to get the chop too. I might go for a swingy bob. Summer wasn’t far off and I didn’t fancy spending hours every morning defrizzing and straightening as was my current custom. Enough with the faffiness, it was time for a change.
I became aware of Sam’s eyes on me again.
‘What?’ I said, acutely aware of my split ends. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
He shrugged. ‘I was thinking about how reductive you are.’
‘Reductive,’ I said finally. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’
His eyes widened ever so slightly. ‘You simplify everything into binary context when, in fact, the situation is often much more complex.’
‘Yep. It’s a gift,’ I said, pleased.
A kind of snorty noise came out of Sam’s mouth. ‘I bet your job has had a lot to do with that,’ he muttered. ‘Septimus was quite the opposite, he understood intricacy.’
I wasn’t sure whether to get shirty about that last statement or not. ‘Well, certainly, in my given occupation you have to make difficult decisions. I don’t make the rules. I enforce them. Simple as that.’ I sniffed. ‘And secondly, I do understand intricacy. I’ve watched Black Swan. Twice. And get it: it was in her head, and that. And anyway, I didn’t really have much to do with my granddad. I told you before. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. Not really. I never saw enough of him to understand his version of intricacy. And that’s not my fault.’ The words came out without the correct intonation or pitch and sounded way too plaintive. I hadn’t meant it to leak out like that. Not really.
I saw Sam swallow. ‘But given all that, it’s strange that he left you the museum, isn’t it?’
Now, this made me sigh. And I didn’t bother keeping that in. We’d been here before. I wondered again if he was asking out of petulance, because he had expected the museum to be left to him. A kink of anger fired up inside. ‘He bequeathed it to me, Sam. Me. I’m the eldest. John, my brother, is younger. And more than a little lazy. And, I know, you’ve done a lot for him and helped him with the museum and I’m really grateful for that, honest. But you’re not family, are you?’
The muscles in his cheek contracted. ‘I didn’t mean that, Rosie. I’m not challenging his decision. I was merely alluding to the fact Septimus didn’t leave it to your father. His surviving heir.’
I laughed. ‘Dad would have just put it straight on the market without so much as visiting the pl—’ I stopped mid-sentence.
Sam had halted. ‘Precisely,’ he said. His eyes were intense and dancing. Amber flints whirred within.
‘Oh,’ I said, and shook my head. ‘How could he have possibly known that I’d even come down and see it? Meet you and Bronson?’ I shrugged and started off again. ‘I’m still selling it,’ I said, and tried to make it sound firm.
‘And yet here you are,’ Sam said softly beside me. ‘Ghost-hunting in London on behalf of the museum. Like Audrey said, you’ve still not even got a valuation.’
‘I – I – we’ve been busy.’ I protested.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We have. You have indeed. Seeking out the bones of a woman executed for witchcraft and, I suspect, sabotaging the witchfinder effigies within the museum. I told you it would weave its magic over you
. I know you didn’t believe me but look at the evidence. You’ll see. Oh, left here. We need to turn into Fetter Lane.’
I opened my mouth to protest but decided against it. There was some truth in what he said. I had prevaricated for sure. But that was because I’d been sidetracked by other things. Other things which promised income. Other capers that indeed had borne fruit. My brand new boots were testament to that.
Besides, I thought as we went up the road, Septimus had left a house in Devon to my father and money to my brother. He was sensitive to Ted’s aversion to all things witchy and aware of John’s propensity for idleness. If anything, I’d probably got the crappy end of the deal. After all there was a lot of work that needed to be done to the witch museum to bring it up to modern standards to get a top-end evaluation. Sam was simply doing his best to woo me into keeping it. It was his bread and butter after all. And a goldmine of research for his PhD thesis – the definitive book on witchcraft in Essex. Or something like that. One had to admire his dedication. He never stopped trying to persuade me, the silver-tongued charmer.
‘Rosie! Stop dithering,’ he yapped. ‘Come on, we’re late. Keep up, old girl.’
Charming. ‘Less of the old, thank you.’
He threw me a fulsome smile. ‘You’re only two years older.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ I said, and ducked out the way to avoid a homeless woman with two shopping trolleys.
The lane was wider than was usual in the City of London – a one-way street that comprised three lanes of traffic. Although located in a very old part of town, six- and seven-storey offices towered over us, evidence of 1980s construction sprees. Not the greatest architectural era for London, it had to be said.
Sam was squinting at a map he’d printed last night. ‘It should be a clean turn-off here on the right.’ He waved his arm north and gestured for us to cross.
I spotted the cut leading off after a chain pub. However, I could also see the outline of a chubby chick standing at the front. With her hands loosely held behind her back, feet rooted to the ground, bowler-style hat and red-and-white-checked cravat even from this distance I could tell she was City of London police.
‘Oo-er,’ I said as we approached. ‘Looks like there’s something going on.’
‘There’s always something going on in London,’ Sam grumbled. ‘Too many people, not enough space.’
‘You sure you’re in your thirties?’ I eyed him, though privately I agreed.
‘Indeed.’
‘You have a lot in common with my dad.’
‘I’m sure Edward Strange is a charming man so I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.’
‘Suit yourself.’ I became aware of the policewoman eying us. She was chewing gum and had a ‘Sandra face’ on. This was an expression used by my team in Leytonstone to describe someone of either sex whose job it was to be a bureaucratic obstacle. When this Sandra locked eyes on me, her mouth hunkered down so that she resembled, if I might be permitted to use my dad’s favourite idiom, a bulldog chewing a wasp. Behind her blue-and-white tape cordoned off the small road.
‘Hello?’ I said. It wasn’t worth smiling. This one was clearly inured against charm.
She had a mushroom-like pallor, that could have done with a bit of bronzer to liven it up, and recessed eyes. The lips twitched like they wanted to squeeze together and spit out Mr Waspy but good training prevailed. It was too close to call whether she was by nature miserable or if this was some Sandra-faced attitude required by her job.
‘We have an appointment. Through there.’ I pointed over her shoulder into the alley beyond.
Suspicious brown eyes roamed over the pair of us, taking in Sam’s battered old suitcase. I registered a prickle of disapproval and fleeting interest in our pairing. Sam, I imagined, looked out of place by my side. In pre-Internet days he could have passed for an Encyclopaedia Britannica salesman.
‘You have an appointment? With whom?’ The policewoman took her eyes off the suitcase and gave my boots a good look. I couldn’t blame her – they were bloody gorgeous. An ugly line nicked her forehead. Probably jealous: not everyone could rock this look, it was true.
I watched the policewoman’s eyes flick up to my face and saw dark circles beneath them that might be easily reduced with a lighter foundation. That was pure laziness. Or maybe exhaustion. A long shift no doubt. On a Sunday too. A spasm of sympathy passed through me.
‘We’ve come to see Ray Boundersby,’ Sam was saying. ‘And we’re rather late, I’m afraid. Would you mind letting us through?’
The policewoman stood her ground and uptilted her chin. ‘What’s the nature of your business?’
‘He’d like us to, er, inspect the restaurant.’
This clearly seemed absurd to the woman. ‘Oh, yeah, really? Names?’
‘Sam Stone and Rosie Strange,’ I told her.
She smiled to herself. It wasn’t a comforting sight. It was the smile that presaged the Sandra-face triumph – dismissal. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Then she tucked her chin down towards the radio on her chest and announced us to whoever was on the other end.
We waited a long moment, while Sandra switched between glaring and gloating, until the tinny radio responded. The Sandra face fell. Reluctantly she ‘over and outed’ then lifted the tape for us to pass through. ‘Report to the officer outside La Fleur.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What’s going on?’
But she merely sent us a smirk, her parting gift, then turned her back on us.
We marched over cobbles till we reached the tight, glossy entrance and were ushered in by the uniformed officer who continued to escort us to the far side of the restaurant where we were instructed to take a seat at the table and wait.
‘I’ll start with a prawn cocktail, thanks,’ I said to the police guy but he didn’t laugh.
I could see now that the narrow exterior façade was rather misleading, for the restaurant interior was huge. Truly Tardis-like. At least it certainly seemed that way – for the ceilings were enormously high. The architect had knocked through part of the first floor so the height at the front was at least twenty foot. The windows weren’t opaque, blacked-out, as I’d supposed on my way in, but actually drew in the light from the court outside.
The effect was sexy and rich and opulent.
‘Wow,’ said Sam, taking in his surroundings and obviously coming to the same conclusion as me. ‘Very nouveau.’
I frowned. ‘Cuisine?’
‘Riche,’ he replied.
‘Sam, you’re such a snob.’
‘Just joshing.’ He laughed at my expression. ‘I knew you’d take the bait.’
Seriously, compared to the Witch Museum, or the Benefit Fraud offices this was a whole different galaxy. Where the first floor would have been, a huge contemporary chandelier dangled down. Ostentatious and glitzy, it made a statement, and that statement was I’m expensive. It was the perfect place for city ladies and gents to show off the size of their disposal income. Or the disposable income of their companies. I mean, with that ceiling height, the proprietors were clearly not worried about heating bills. And that was going to filter through to the price you paid for a meal.
Beyond the chandelier a sweeping glass staircase led to a mezzanine level. Unlike the ground floor, which was tiled with granite slabs, up there it looked to be carpeted in lush black. Baroque frames displaying contemporary art graced ebony walls. It all gave the restaurant a nocturnal, clubby atmosphere.
About us everywhere objects glittered gold and shiny: vases, cutlery, clean-line candlesticks.
They presented quite a contrast to the mucky footprints all over the floor. It was a pretty curious scene, to be honest.
Sam wasn’t looking at floor though; he was sitting back at the table taking in the height of the place. ‘Hard to tell when it dates back to. This part of the city has been built upon multiple times. The current structure is maybe Georgian. Lower rooms earlier than that in all probability.’
&nb
sp; His eyes were quick and darting, zipping round the room, exploring tiny architectural details that hadn’t been blasted away by interior designers. He noticed my gaze and turned. ‘You’re going to say something smart-arse, aren’t you?’
I wasn’t. In reality I was admiring his jawline again. It looked good, though I suspected the lighting had been designed to flatter everyone in here.
‘No,’ I returned, ‘I’m not that predictable actually,’ and started ad-libbing. ‘I was wondering if there were witches here. In London.’ My eyes caught the urbane chandelier. ‘I suppose they’re mostly in rural settings – cottages or caves or forests, stirring cauldrons under the new moon. You know, places that are a bit more herbal.’
Sam had removed his phone from his pocket and was jabbing at a compass app. ‘Mmm,’ he said, head bent to it. ‘Margaret Jourdemayne was executed just up the road at Smithfield. It’s a meat market now but it was once an execution site. The Witch of Eye, I believe she was called. Got caught up in court affairs, tried to help a noblewoman conceive. Burnt at the stake.’
‘Here?’
Sam swapped seats so he had a better view into the space. ‘A place called the Elms in Smithfield,’ he squinted into the middle distance. ‘I think, if memory bears me right.’ He looked back at the app and jiggled it around. ‘It’s slightly north of St Bartholomew the Great.’ He pointed in the direction of the kitchens.
‘Is that relevant?’ I said.
‘Well, we don’t know yet, do we? Right now, we have to keep an open mind—’
‘And a healthy scepticism,’ I finished his sentence. It was his motto, I had learnt.
‘Indeed,’ he added. ‘Especially as it looks like something quite serious has happened. There’s a sizeable police presence.’ He leant his forearms across the table. ‘Through that hatch.’ Once more he jabbed his finger at the rear of the restaurant. ‘There’re wombles in the kitchen.’
‘You’re hallucinating, dear boy. The excitement must be getting to you.’ But I could hear plenty of sounds coming from that direction – muffled footsteps, murmured conversations, the odd radio beeping.