“That'd be great!” said Erin, then frowned. “Now that's weird, I'm sure somebody told me the exact same thing when I was really – erm, yesterday evening. In the pub.”
Louise gave a thin smile and poured them tea out of a blue china pot. She then went over the scope of the deputy director's job, but with extra emphasis on what she called 'redeployment of dormant assets'.
“Does that mean fetching a bunch of dusty stuff out of the attic?” asked Erin.
Another thin smile.
“It's the cellar,” said Louise. “But yes, we want to liven up our displays, and that means checking on items that were cataloged years, or even decades, ago, but haven't seen the light of day since.”
The director took a small tray of items from the table behind her desk and handed it across to Erin.
“Another test?” asked Erin, as she took it.
“No,” said Louise, “I just wondered what you'd make of it.”
It took Erin only a couple of seconds to recognize the array of rings and pendants for what they were.
“Hair jewelry,” she said. “Victorian, part of a rather morbid tradition. The hair of a deceased loved one, especially a child, preserved in a glass or crystal casing. They can be very elaborate. Sometimes they were made from stone, such as Whitby jet, but they sometimes used an early type of polymer called Vulcanite. You can spot it because it tends to go brown with age. This one, for instance–”
She picked a brooch to illustrate her point and a jolt, like an electric shock, ran up her arm. Erin's knees jerked and the tray of jewelry flew into the air.
My love, don't go! I fear you will not return to us!
Sensation more powerful than the most intense nightmare flashed through her mind. Erin felt terrible anguish, desperation; fear of being parted forever from her husband, the father of her precious babies. This powerful emotion dominated, but in the background, she felt the weight of heavy crinolines, the pinching of high-buttoned boots, perspiration running down inside her stays.
Erin saw her unhappy face in a gilt-framed looking glass, but it was not her face.
“Are you all right?”
Mike Smith was standing over her, his face showing genuine anxiety. Louise was rushing round her desk.
“I'm okay! Sorry, sorry, I don't know – maybe it was static build up?” said Erin.
She started to get down on her knees to grope for the scattered brooches, pendants and rings, then hesitated.
What if it happens again?
She gingerly picked up a ring that was mounted on a curl of fair hair. Nothing happened – all she touched was cold metal and glass.
“I'll do it, no problem,” said Louise. “Mike, now seems as good a time as any to give Erin the grand tour.”
“Of course,” he said. “Right this way, boss.”
His voice had resumed its original cold tone.
As Mike led her back into the labyrinth corridors Erin surreptitiously rubbed her fingers together. They still tingled from the weird shock.
Right, I'm hearing things, feeling things, and seeing things, she thought. Am I going crazy?
Chapter 5: A Woman's Place
Melody Lee swore at her computer.
“Problems?” said a colleague, putting his head round the door. The police computer crime unit was located in a cramped annex where curses tended to be heard by the whole team.
“Just this stupid file,” Melody replied, gesturing. “Ought to be a piece of cake. But working on this old piece of government-issue crap, well, it just isn't. Can't crack it.”
“What is it, exactly?” said the colleague.
“Word file,” she said. “Won’t open. Everything I try fails.”
“Is that the suicide case?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “This is what she had up on the screen. They thought it might be a suicide note, but turns out it was some kind of lecture her dad was going to deliver at the museum.”
“So why bother with it?” asked the colleague.
Melody shrugged.
“Jen Deighton seems to think it's important. Who are we to question the sleuths?”
“So is it corrupted?” he asked.
“Not that I can tell,” said Melody, leaning back and slamming down the PC mouse. “Oh, to hell with it! I'm gonna take it home, work on it with equipment that isn't obsolete.”
“Don't let the bosses hear you say that,” warned her colleague, with mock concern. “They don't approve of us doing unpaid labor!”
Melody stuck out her tongue.
“Like we'd get anything done if we didn't,” she said. “One night alone with this file and I'll crack it wide open.”
“Five quid says you don't?” returned the colleague.
“You're on!” said Melody, slapping his hand in the approved fashion.
She sidelined the Maspero job and moved on. But throughout the rest of the day, the problem kept niggling at the back of Melody's mind. For the life of her, she could not figure out why, every time she tried to open the file, she got a message reading ERROR TYPE 527. She had never seen anything like it before.
***
“This is what Louise was talking about,” said Mike Smith, leading Erin down a flight of worn wooden steps into the museum basement. The light was poor, and the floor below cluttered. Even to Erin's expert eye, a lot of the stuff in storage looked like junk.
Well, maybe most of it is, she thought. But there's always a pearl or two in this kind of dung heap.
“So the hair jewelry was found here?” she asked.
“Yeah,” replied Mike. “In one of those old cabinets. Lots of small items in storage there. The records are mostly in longhand and quite chaotic. Saffron is supposed to be digitizing them but …”
He shrugged.
“So my job is to sort all this out?” asked Erin.
“Apparently,” he said, with the trace of a smirk. Mike was about to say something else when his phone chimed. He frowned, excused himself, and began to have what was obviously a private conversation.
“Sorry babe,” he said, climbing back up the stairs, “it's very poor reception here. Yeah, just wait until I get into the main part of the building.”
Left on her own, Erin began to explore. She loved rummaging through historical artifacts. As a child, she had loved going to junk shops and yard sales with her dad. He had been a compulsive collector, a hoarder.
'Goin' to Surf City gonna have some fun ...' she hummed to herself. It had been her dad's favorite song, and she had joined in when he had sung it as they drove along in their beat-up old flatbed Ford. It was one of the few things she remembered about Danny Cale, who had died when she was just six.
The basement was cluttered and Erin had to clamber around and over crates, boxes, and filing cabinets. Erin felt her old enthusiasm for the detritus of the past, wondering how many stories were waiting to be told about the objects stacked around her. She picked up a portrait of some long-dead English gentleman, found it dull, moved on to a glass-fronted case of pinned butterflies. This in turn led her to a full-sized ceramic model of a dolphin. Soon, her new sneakers – in a fetching shade of fuchsia – were stained with dirt.
“God knows what my face looks like.”
An old mirror caught her eye. She rubbed off some of the dust with a sleeve and was shocked by how pale she looked. Her eyes were huge, dark. Haunted. The surface of the glass was filthy with dust and fly-specked, plus the poor light. She leaned in closer, wondering how her hair got so crazy. There was something wrong with the reflection. It was not moving.
Then her own face came into view from the side.
Erin fell heavily backwards, her butt crushing on a cardboard box. Her heart was pounding again.
Optical illusion. Had to be.
The face in the mirror was the one she had seen when she had touched the brooch in Louise's office. A pinched, pale face with huge eyes, long dark hair. It was just enough like Erin's to confuse her.
Is this the lo
oking glass?
Cautiously, bracing herself for further shocks, she examined the mirror. Sure enough, the cheap alloy frame showed traces of gilt. It was the right size and shape, as well.
But when I wiped it there was no shock – was that because I didn't touch it directly? I used my sleeve.
Gingerly, she put a fingertip on the frame. Again, the jolt of weird energy shot through her, and this time she saw another face. A man with an old-fashioned mustache, looking worried. He reached out for her, cupped her face in gentle hands.
“My darling,” he said, “I must go. I cannot let this abomination persist, this canker in the heart of our city.”
Again, Erin felt overwhelming emotions that were at once alien to her yet somehow part of her being. Fear, love, despair, hope, all vied for dominance.
“Why must you be the one?” her other self demanded. “Let the others do something for once, instead of simply looking on.”
The man – she knew he was her husband – released her, shook his head.
“Someone must act. If I wait for them to move then I am as weak, as cowardly as they are. I must take a stand.”
Before she could protest, he had turned on his heel and left the room. Erin's vision blurred with tears. She took an embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress to dab at her eyes. The front door opened, admitting the raucous sounds of the busy street, then slammed shut.
“Erin? You with us?”
Mike Smith was in front of her, his hand wafting in front of her face. Irritated, she restrained herself from slapping it away, managed a big fake smile instead.
“I'm fine, Mike – just lost in wonder at this amazing collection.”
“You like rummaging among old junk?” he said sourly, looking around at the heaped detritus of centuries. “You'll be in ecstasy here, then.”
“Weird attitude for a guy who works in a museum,” she pointed out. “You disillusioned with the job?”
“Yeah, a little,” he said shortly. “Can't think why.”
The rest of the tour was conducted in a spirit of icy professionalism. Some long silences allowed Erin to brood on her bizarre experiences. But she could reach no conclusion, apart from the obvious one.
This all started when I arrived in Weyrmouth. But if I leave, I quit the only job I'm gonna get this side of the Atlantic. No way I'm gonna do that.
***
Weyrmouth Masonic Hall was an imposing building with a square-pillared portico and small obelisks at the corners of its roof. It's a vaguely Egyptian look reflecting Victorian Freemason's belief that their society had its roots in ancient mysticism. Roker found such pretensions absurd, knowing that Freemasonry dated from the seventeenth century.
Tonight, as usual, the function room on the top floor was the venue. Coffee, tea, juice, and snacks had been laid out. The members of the Shadow Council arrived one by one, sampling the buffet and talking about politics, football, and the weather. It was business as usual. Anyone stumbling into the chamber might have mistaken them for the Chamber of Commerce, which was half-true – most of them were members.
When all thirteen were present, Park locked the door while Roker closed the blinds, then dimmed the lights. They began the robing, a ritual that Roker found as ludicrous as ordinary Masonic antics.
“Look,” he said, dragging on his dark red robe of Second Councilor, “we all know each other. We're not Satanists, for Christ's sake! Why do we have to dress up like extras in a third-rate horror movie?”
“Tradition!” snapped Park, putting his lanky arms into the voluminous sleeves of a white habit. As First of the Council, he had ultimate authority and resented Roker's sniping at the rules of the secret society.
“Let's just get on with it,” said one of the younger members, pulling up the pale blue hood of a novice. “It's the season finale of Doctor Who tonight, you know.”
Roker guffawed, Park grimaced but gestured the councilors into the center of the room. They formed a semi-circle on a large, threadbare square of silk. The cloth was embroidered with magical symbols inside a circle that contained a thirteen-pointed star. Facing the robed men was a large silver mirror. The glass was tilted slightly so that Park, who stood in the center of the group, could look directly into it. In front of the mirror stood a bronze tripod with an incense burner. Park stepped forward, lit the burner, then resumed his place.
“All together, please, in nice clear voices,” he said, with a glance at Roker.
Hesitantly at first, then with rising confidence, the thirteen began to chant.
Enlighten us, Ithuriel, clad in fiery raiment
Instruct us all, Ithuriel, seer of fallen years
Grace your supplicants with your shining presence
Instruct your servitors, we will obey!
At the third repetition of the spell, the burner flared and a cloud of smoke obscured the mirror. At the same time, Park saw his reflection start to blur and distort. A new face was almost there, but not quite, the false image vying with the true.
“He is present!” Park said, bowing his head. The others followed suit, then watched as Park took a step forward. All waited for the correct form of words, completing the summoning ritual established in the age of the first Queen Elizabeth.
“Noble angel,” cried Park, “we, poor mortals, beseech you, give us sage counsel!”
The burner flared again, sputtered, went out. A cloud of whitish-yellow smoke rose, dispersed, and then revealed the hybrid image more clearly. Standing behind and to the right of Park, Roker could just make out a shimmering outline of a face. It grew brighter, more substantial, its eyes and mouth glowing with flame. Roker braced himself, knowing what must come next.
The voice was gentle and yet somehow piercing, as if the words had bypassed Roker's ears and struck straight into the brain.
“The sands of time run faster. The cycle is almost at an end.”
The voice was neutral, conveying no emotion, and yet it was nothing like a machine. Roker, for all this skepticism, had never doubted that when Ithuriel spoke, it was no kind of trickery. They were hearing the voice of a non-human being.
“What are your commands, O Lord of Light?” asked Park.
Not for the first time, Roker noted how commendably calm the thin man sounded. It was as if he were addressing the Lord Mayor or minor royalty. The face in the mirror grew even brighter, and Roker turned his head away, eyes watering.
“The woman is of the blood line. She has already glimpsed buried truths. Let her find more. Let all be revealed. Let the light of heaven shine upon all that was hidden!”
“How–” began Park, but the face of Ithuriel vanished as a radiance, brighter than the noonday sun, shone from the mirror. Then all was normal again, and Roker blinked as green after-images flickered across his vision.
“Well,” he said, stepping forward and looking up at Park. “Head office says carry on, you're doing a grand job. Must be reassuring?”
Park grimaced down at his deputy.
“This is no fit subject for levity,” he replied. “We still do not know the whole plan.”
Raising his voice, Park addressed the whole Shadow Council.
“We must be ready to make sacrifices. Blood has already been shed, it’s not clear to what end. The American is the best candidate we have seen in many years. Remain alert, brethren!”
“Yeah, what he said,” said Roker, taking off his robe with a sigh of relief. “Same time next month, eh lads? Maybe the dear old Masons will lay on some quality biscuits for us.”
“One day your flippancy will prove your undoing!” snapped Park, then raised his voice to oratory level again. “It is given to very few of us, my brethren, to be truly on the side of the angels.”
***
It was such a pleasant evening that Melody Lee decided to walk home to her apartment on the sea front. It would take her nearly an hour, but she needed the exercise after a day at her desk. Her route took her past a nursery school where parents were pick
ing up kids. She loved children, and loitered a little, enjoying the sight of so many more-or-less happy families.
So late, she thought. Must be some after-school activities going on.
Melody smiled at a little girl who was staring at her. The girl did not smile back. Instead, the child's face twisted in fright. The little girl started to cry, grabbed hold of her mother's leg.
“What is it, honey?” asked the mother.
“Bad doggy,” said the girl, pointing in Melody's direction.
Melody stopped, looked around. On the other side of the street, a pot-bellied old man was walking a tiny Chihuahua. The little dog was dragging at its leash, trying to go back the way they had come.
Melody looked back at mother and child. The woman shrugged her shoulders, the grown-ups exchanged smiles, and Melody walked on. As she went around the corner, she heard the Chihuahua start to bark frantically. It was clearly in a rage, or a panic.
Yappy little twit. Get a proper dog, sir, she thought. Anything that small's just a
glorified cat that needs walks.
Melody crossed the Weyrmouth Bridge and turned towards the coastal part of the town. As she came within sight of the sea, a biting wind blew up and made her regret her choice of clothes. She clutched at her thin jacket and tried to keep up a good pace to generate some warmth.
By the time she reached her apartment on the sea front, Melody was feeling tired and a bit miserable. She had felt out of sorts all day, and like most energetic people, resented even the hint of illness as a personal affront.
God, I hope it's not some kind of summer flu, she thought as she unlocked her front door. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the stairwell. For a moment, Melody thought she had glimpsed a small figure at the top of the stairs. But there was nobody there.
Tired and emotional, she thought. Need to have a rest. Get something to eat first.
“But I'll get this stupid file cracked if it's the last thing–”She bounded up the steps two at a time, key in hand, anticipating a kiss and cuddle with her boyfriend, followed by dinner and a bit of television. Then she remembered that Jeff was still away on a training course, would not be back until tomorrow morning. She hated being alone.
Curse of Weyrmouth Page 7