Breaking the Circle, page 17
‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous,’ she said, ‘if they could talk to us.’
‘Who?’ Merrington was miles away.
‘The people we have here,’ she said, sitting a little behind him so that she didn’t obscure the light. ‘In the cases.’
‘Oh, the mummies.’ He leaned back and put his pen down. ‘Yes, indeed it would.’ He turned to her, frowning. ‘But don’t they talk to you all the time, Dr Murray? With your insight into their world?’
Margaret smiled. ‘How very perceptive you are, Mr Merrington,’ she said. ‘And you flatter me. But an archaeologist can know only so much from bones and tomb artefacts. Skin, now, that’s different. There is a man named Collins at Scotland Yard – have you heard of him?’
‘I don’t believe I have.’ Merrington got back to his drawing.
‘He’s a fingerprint expert. I am hoping he’ll be able to take the prints of some of our exhibits – with more than usual care, of course.’
‘Fascinating,’ Merrington said.
‘But even so,’ she went on, ‘it’s not the same as actually talking to someone from the past. Have you ever dabbled, Mr Merrington, with the Other Side?’
He turned to her again, laughing this time. ‘Are you talking about séances?’ he asked, wobbling his fingers in the air and making ‘woo-woo’ noises.
‘I am,’ she said, ‘and I assume from your reaction that you don’t believe a word of it.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t. I believe Courtney, my secretary, has occasionally attended. My only experience stems from when I was really very young.’
‘Really?’
‘It was all the vogue some years ago, wasn’t it? Table-tilting, spirit-writing, something of a party game.’
‘Indeed it was,’ Margaret said.
‘It stuck in my mind because it was so silly.’
‘What?’ Margaret asked. ‘Clanking chains, white sheets?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t as obvious as that,’ he said, folding his arms and smiling at the memory of it. ‘There was a little group, a Circle, I suppose you’d call it, men and women. And an old harridan who was the medium. Everybody talked in hushed tones and was very deferential to her. I remember how cold it was and I wanted to keep my scarf on, but they wouldn’t let me.’
‘Did anything happen?’
‘Somebody broke the glass; you know, the one they used to spell out messages from beyond – wherever “beyond” is supposed to be.’
‘Somebody broke it?’
‘Well, obviously. Oh, it appeared to shatter by itself, but you and I, Dr Murray, know enough about the laws of physics to know that that isn’t possible. But it was the wall writing that was the most ridiculous of all.’
‘Oh? What did it say?’
‘God, I don’t remember. Something like “Watch me” … no, no. “Look at me”. That was it.’
‘What did you make of that?’ Margaret asked.
‘What does a thirteen year old make of anything?’ Merrington shrugged. ‘Somebody turned on the lights and we all went home. My money was on the medium.’
‘The horrible old harridan?’
‘Yes. Well, she controlled the whole thing. I’ve read since how they do it. They build up the tension with silence and darkness and ask silly questions and exert just enough pressure on the wine glass to make it move. Others in the Circle aid and abet them – oh, not intentionally, but imperceptibly because they want it to happen. In the darkness, a clever conjuror can easily leave her place at the table, scrawl rubbish on a wall and nip back before she’s missed. It’s all about misdirection. We were all looking at the glass at the time and that was what we all saw.’
‘Were there any voices?’ Margaret asked.
‘Voices? Yes, I believe there were. And that, really, is how I know the whole thing was a put-up job. The voice said “Boy”. Well, how many séances have boys at them? The old harridan could see me there. She was working on the sensibilities of those present.’ Merrington paused. ‘How on earth did we get on to this subject?’
Margaret laughed. ‘The people of the past,’ she said, ‘and if they could only talk to us. Interesting, though, that mediums should be in the news at the moment.’
‘Are they?’ Merrington was sharpening a pencil.
‘Three mediums murdered in London within a three-week period.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Merrington nodded. ‘I read about two. Who’s the third?’
‘Her name, I believe, was Florence Rook.’
‘I’ll check with Courtney,’ the artist said. ‘See if she knew her.’
‘Mother of God!’ Flinders Petrie was standing in Margaret Murray’s inner sanctum, Kirk Merrington’s artwork in his hands. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Admittedly, the wretched artist had drawn in his horns from the cartoonish approach of his first efforts, but these sweeping dioramas would put Lawrence Alma-Tadema to shame.
There was only one other person in the room and the great man launched into him. ‘You!’ he snapped. ‘Brooks, isn’t it?’
‘Er … yes, Professor. Jack Brooks. Is something amiss?’ He had never seen Flinders Petrie quite that purple before.
‘Where is Dr Murray?’
‘Umm … I’ve no idea,’ Brooks said. He checked his half-hunter. ‘She’s finished her eleven o’clock lecture by now. Her next tutorial isn’t until three. Long lunch hour by the look of it.’ He was trying to be helpful. ‘You might try the Jeremy Bentham.’
‘Arthur Evans might actually try to be an archaeologist,’ Petrie growled, ‘but I doubt it. I had a less than adequate Eccles at the Bentham last week and I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience.’ He stood silently fuming, then he stuffed the artwork into a portfolio. ‘Should Dr Murray turn up,’ he said, ‘tell her I wish to see her at her earliest convenience.’ And he swept out, leaving Brooks in no doubt at all who owned and ran the Petrie Museum.
‘I’m afraid Mr Quaritch …’ was as far as the hapless girl on the desk got before the hurricane that was Flinders Petrie whirled past her in a profusion of flapping Ulster and wild, white hair.
‘Not as afraid as he’s going to be!’ Petrie misunderstood the girl completely as he took the stairs two at a time. He crashed into the publisher’s office just in time to see a pretty little secretary bounce off Bernard Quaritch’s lap and into a demure, secretarial pose on a nearby chair.
‘Smartly done,’ the professor grated. ‘Now, do something smarter and disappear.’ He waved her away.
‘Now, look here, Professor …’ Quaritch didn’t see himself as a tradesman, whatever Kirk Merrington’s and Lord Byron’s views of publishers were, and no fuddy-duddy from the world of academe was going to …
‘No, you look here!’ Flinders Petrie threw the portfolio on to the man’s desk, ‘at these.’
Quaritch made great play of adjusting his pince-nez before he gave his erudite verdict on the artwork. ‘Ah.’
‘Quite!’ Petrie sat down uninvited. ‘Dr Murray’s book was sponsored by Professor Virchov of Berlin, Sir Mohammed ibn Teshufin of Cairo, not to mention my good self. It is a scholarly work of modest length by a woman for whom I have the highest regard but who is, she won’t mind my saying, a beginner in such matters. Merrington has turned the whole thing into a circus, a children’s picture book.’
‘Oh, come now, Professor.’ Quaritch was being far more reasonable. ‘A little licence, surely.’
‘Licence be buggered!’ Petrie roared. ‘Either you rein in this charlatan with a paintbrush or I pull the whole book.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Oh, but I can. University College has sponsored Dr Murray’s work too. That means the whole project is in my gift. Dr Murray will no doubt go on to write many more tomes, but Bernard Quaritch will not be publishing them.’
The publisher reflected for a moment. Sales had not been going well recently; the republication of The Lustful Turk had not gone down at all well – with the Women’s Social and Political Union on the prowl, times were changing.
‘What if,’ he said, looking at the drawings again, ‘we reach a compromise? Get somebody else to do a few simple, mundane archaeological drawings and leave Merrington with a cover design and frontispiece – to be chosen by you, of course.’
Flinders Petrie hesitated. ‘Will he go for that?’ he asked.
‘There’s one way to find out,’ the publisher said, crossing the room to get his coat. ‘We can ask him.’
The tall studio houses along Ampton Street screamed artist. Long windows, gleaming with art nouveau glass, reached from pavement to sky, and the equally elegant door was opened by a tall, angular woman wearing a man’s riding waistcoat and a long riding habit.
‘Is Mr Merrington at home?’ Quaritch tipped his hat.
‘I’m afraid not – Mr Quaritch, is it? He shouldn’t be long. Would you care to wait?’
She showed the pair into a large vestibule, where paintings of a dubious nature hung on walls dark with flock. No doubt they all had deep spiritual meaning, but the Bishop of London would have had a coronary had he seen them.
‘Would you like some tea, gentlemen?’ the secretary asked in her dark brown voice. ‘Coffee? Mr Merrington likes his Turkish style.’
‘This isn’t exactly a social call,’ Petrie scowled at her. ‘Will he be long?’
The woman looked at him quizzically. ‘Where are my manners?’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to stare, sir, but it is you, isn’t it? Professor Flinders Petrie?’
‘I have that honour,’ he said. Famous as he was in the world of archaeology, that was a very small world indeed and he had yet to be mobbed in the street.
‘May I say – I’m Courtney, by the way – may I say what a profound honour this is. The doyen of the publishing world and another world’s leading archaeologist under the same roof!’ She clasped her hands together in pure joy. ‘Please,’ and she ushered them to soft, leather seats.
She sat with them and became serious. ‘It’s about the drawings for Dr Murray’s book, isn’t it?’
Quaritch and Petrie looked at each other. ‘It is,’ the professor said.
Courtney shook her head. ‘Mr Merrington has put his heart and soul into those. He is such a passionate man. Every project he undertakes, he gives it his all.’
‘Well,’ Petrie grunted, ‘his all, in this case, may not be enough.’
‘Enough for what?’ Kirk Merrington stood in the doorway, hauling off his scarf and wideawake.
His visitors stood up. ‘Professor Petrie here has misgivings,’ Quaritch said.
‘Does he now?’ Merrington crossed to the man. He did not extend his hand. ‘We haven’t met, sir,’ he said, ‘although I know of you by reputation, of course. About what do you misgive?’
‘The drawings.’ Petrie came to the point. ‘They are too lavish, too garish, too large and extreme for a book of this nature.’
‘Dr Murray rather liked them,’ Merrington bridled.
‘With all due respect to Dr Murray,’ the professor said, ‘and believe me, I have that in spades, this is her first book. I, on the other hand, have published …’
‘But I don’t work for you,’ Merrington said flatly.
Quaritch opened his mouth to say something.
‘Or you.’ Merrington stopped him in his tracks.
‘But I shall be paying you,’ the publisher reminded him, ‘or not, as the case may be.’
‘Did Dr Murray send you?’ Merrington asked Petrie.
‘Certainly not.’ It was the archaeologist’s turn to bridle. ‘I am no woman’s lackey.’
‘Good for you,’ Merrington snarled. ‘If Dr Murray has issues with my work, all well and good. I have made changes at her request already. But if you’ll forgive me, when a mountebank and his zany make such unreasonable demands, I am inclined to say get out of my house before I throw you out.’
It was one of those moments in men’s lives, when civilization vanishes in a second and stone-cold aggression stands, threatening, in its place. Merrington was tall and willowy but who knew what Bohemian tricks he had up his sleeve should it come to fisticuffs? Petrie never wrestled with chimney sweeps and glancing briefly at Quaritch, decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He had also glanced briefly at Courtney, standing like an ox in the furrow with clenched fists. He had noticed, somewhat to his surprise, a pair of distinctly feminine breasts standing proudly under her blouse, over the waistcoat. He was a gentleman and wouldn’t want to hit a woman but, anyway, her thighs looked as though they could crack walnuts and he was not about to take any chances.
‘Certainly,’ he said to Merrington. ‘But don’t let me hear that you have been anywhere near my museum or Dr Murray again.’
‘Er … I think the professor’s in rather a bad mood.’ Jack Brooks was making the tea for himself and Margaret Murray.
‘It’s his age,’ she smiled.
‘No, he’s really gunning for you.’
Margaret paused in mid hat-removal. ‘“Gunning for me”, Mr Brooks? Do I detect a quotation from an American dime novel?’
Brooks was surprised. ‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Owen Wister. The Virginian. Don’t tell me you read such tosh.’
‘I’m afraid I do,’ she chuckled. ‘My guilty secret. But,’ she took the proffered cup, ‘on a different note entirely, was your mother serious about holding a séance at her house?’
‘Oh, rather.’ Brooks sat down, passing Margaret the ginger McVitie’s.
‘Well, can you ask her for a convenient date?’ she said. ‘I’ve managed to procure one of the most famous mediums in the world today – Eusapia Palladino.’
‘Palladino!’ Brooks nearly choked on his McVitie’s. ‘Dr Murray, how do you do it? She is the crème de la crème of mediums.’
‘I hope she doesn’t disappoint,’ Margaret mused.
‘Talking of disappointment, Margaret …’ Flinders Petrie was crashing through the door, barely remembering to open it first. ‘Brooks, make yourself scarce.’
The postgraduate student stood up certainly but showed no sign of going. Like all professors, Petrie could be a bullying old bastard when it suited him, but Brooks’s innate loyalty lay with Margaret.
‘Now!’ Petrie thundered, and Margaret nodded at the lad to go quietly.
Brooks closed to the professor. ‘When you say that,’ he said, ‘smile.’
Margaret suppressed a chortle. The Wisterism was lost on Petrie but she and Jack appreciated it all the same.
‘Was there a problem, William?’ she asked when he had gone.
‘That wretched Merrington,’ the professor sat down heavily. ‘I have, in effect, fired him.’ He caught her gaze. ‘With Bernard Quaritch’s blessing, before you ask.’
Margaret smiled at her mentor, her colleague, her sometime lover. ‘That’s as may be, William,’ she said softly. ‘But you don’t have my blessing; not at all.’
‘Dr Murray?’ A tall man with a quiff and a moustache swept off his hat and smiled down at the shortest archaeologist in London that afternoon.
‘Inspector Collins?’ She held out a hand. ‘Delighted to meet you. And thank you so much for helping me in my enquiries.’
‘That’s usually my line,’ Collins grinned. ‘And I’m not sure how much help I can be.’
She ushered him into an antechamber of the museum where shrivelled corpses stood around the walls, supported by pegs and hooks. ‘I assume,’ she said, ‘that you are familiar with cadavers.’
‘All too, madam,’ he said, ‘though rarely in the state this lot’s in.’
‘Indeed not,’ she said, ‘but this lot is between two and three thousand years old, Inspector. What I believe you in the police call “cold cases”.’
Collins smiled. ‘What can I do for you?’
Margaret scuttled around a desk and slid a drawer open. She held up a mummified hand. ‘The digits of what we believe is a high priest of the Old Kingdom,’ she said. ‘It would be fascinating to know if his loops and whorls, as I believe you call them, are similar to ours today.’
‘Well,’ Collins examined the wizened brown hand carefully. ‘We’ve never actually taken a corpse’s prints before – not as old as this, anyway.’
‘You’ve taken more recent ones?’ she asked.
‘Let’s just say, I am in the process.’
‘Anyone we know?’
Collins laughed. ‘Dr Murray,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty—’
‘Oh, tosh, Mr Collins!’ she interrupted. ‘You and I are on the same quest in life.’
‘We are?’
‘A quest for the truth. I, to find out all I can about the past. You, to catch criminals. Especially,’ she tapped his Gladstone, ‘murderers.’
‘You’re very perceptive, madam,’ he said.
‘It helps,’ she tapped the side of her nose, ‘if you have a friend on the inside. A friend who might well be involved in the investigation of the murders of three mediums in this city.’
‘And who might that be?’ Collins asked.
‘Aha,’ Margaret laughed. ‘No names, no pack drill. To borrow a phrase from the Yard – “I couldn’t possibly divulge”.’
‘I thought not,’ he chuckled.
‘Can you work miracles?’ she asked.
‘It’s not very miraculous, a little graphite,’ Collins admitted, ‘but I’ll give your pharaohs my best shot. And then I believe you have some special items in your office; we’ll go there next.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I shan’t tell Andrew Crawford you nearly dobbed him in.’
It was almost knocking off time when the telephone rang on John Kane’s desk. He looked at it suspiciously. It was always the same at this time of day. A sword of Damocles hung over his head. If he picked it up and it was urgent, he would be up all night, racing hither and thither after what was almost certainly a red herring. On the other hand, if he didn’t pick it up and it was urgent, the caller would ring round all the other numbers at the Yard until they found someone fool enough to answer and that would just give Kane long enough to get home and ensconce himself in front of a nice plate of jellied eels or pigs’ trotters or something else he had been fancying all day, only to have some beat plod hammer on his door and tell him there was an urgent case back at the Yard. He sighed and picked up the receiver.
