The Antipope (4 page)

“All roads lead to Rome,” said Jim, which Norman found most infuriating.

“About the tramp,” said Neville, “what did Archroy say about him?”

“Seemed he was interested in Omally’s allotment patch.”

“There is certainly something more than odd about this tramp,” said Norman. “I wonder if anybody else has seen him?”

Pooley stroked his chin. If there was one thing he liked, it was a really good mystery. Not of the Agatha Christie variety you understand, Jim’s love was for the cosmic mystery. Many of the more famous ones he had solved with very little difficulty. Regarding the tramp, he had already come to a conclusion. “He is a wandering Jew,” he said.

“Are you serious?” said Norman.

“Certainly,” said Pooley. “And Omally who is by his birth a Catholic will back me up on this – the Wandering Jew was said to have spat upon Our Lord at the time of the Passion and been cursed to wander the planet for ever awaiting Christ’s return, at which time he would be given a chance to apologize.”

“And you think that this Jew is currently doing his wandering through Brentford?”

“Why not? In two thousand years he must have covered most of the globe; he’s bound to turn up here sooner or later.”

“Why doesn’t he come forward to authenticate the Turin shroud then?” said Neville.

The other two turned cynical eyes on him. “Would you?”

“Do you realize then,” said Neville, who was suddenly warming to the idea, “that if he is the Wandering Jew, well we have met a man who once stared upon Jesus.”

There was a reverent silence, each man momentarily alone with his thoughts. Norman and Neville both recalled how they had felt the need to cross themselves; this seemed to reinforce their conviction that Jim Pooley might have struck the nail firmly upon the proverbial head. It was a staggering proposition. Norman was the first to find his voice. “No,” he said shortly, “those eyes never looked upon Christ, although they may certainly have looked upon…”

“God save all here,” said John Omally, striding into the Swan. Somehow the talkers at the bar had formed themselves into what appeared to be a conspiratorial huddle. “Hello,” said John, “plotting the downfall of the English is it I hope?”

“We were discussing the Wandering Jew,” said Pooley.

“Gracious,” said John “and were you now, certainly there’d be a penny or two to be made in the meeting up with that fellow.” The shifting eyes put Omally upon the alert. “He’s not been in and I’ve bloody well missed him?”

“Not exactly,” said Neville.

“Not exactly is it, well let me tell you my dear fellow that if you see him lurking hereabouts you tell him that John Vincent Omally of Moby Dick Terrace would like a word in his kosher shell-like.”

Neville pulled Omally a pint of Large and accepted the exact coinage from the Irishman; upon cashing up the sum he discovered Jim’s washer. Jim, observing this, excused himself and went to the toilet. Shrugging hopelessly the part-time barman took up his NO TRAMPS sign and crossed the bar. Before the open door he hesitated. His mind was performing rapid calculations.

If this tramp was the Wandering Jew maybe he could be persuaded to… well some business proposition, he would most certainly have seen a few rare old sights, a walking history book, why a man with a literary leaning, himself for instance, could come to some arrangement. This Jew might have personal reminiscences of, well, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Beethoven, he might have strolled around the Great Exhibition of 1851, rubbed shoulders with Queen Victoria, met Attila the Hun (not at the Great Exhibition, of course). The list was endless, there would surely be a great many pennies to be had, as Omally said. Neville fingered the painted sign. The tramp certainly carried with him an aura of great evil. Maybe if he was the Jew he would kill anyone who suspected him, he had nothing to lose. Christ’s second coming might be centuries off, what were a few corpses along the way. Maybe he didn’t want redemption anyway, maybe… But it was all too much, Neville gritted his teeth and hung the sign up at the saloon bar door. Jew or no Jew, he wanted no part whatever of the mystery tramp.

Alone in the privacy of the gents, Jim Pooley’s head harboured similar thoughts to those of Neville’s; Jim however had not had personal contact with the tramp and could feel only a good healthy yearning to make a few pennies out of what was after all
his
theory. It would be necessary, however, to divert Omally’s thoughts from this; in fact it would be best for one and all if the Irishman never got to hear about the tramp at all. After all Omally was a little greedy when it came to the making of pennies and he might not share whatever knowledge came his way. Pooley would make a few discreet enquiries round and about; others must have seen the tramp. He could quiz Archroy more thoroughly, he’d be there now on his allotment.

Pooley left the gents and rejoined Norman at the bar. “Where is John Omally?” he asked, eyeing the Irishman’s empty glass.

“I was telling him about the tramp,” said Norman, “and he left in a hurry to speak to Archroy.”

“Damn,” said Jim Pooley, “I mean, oh really, well I think I’ll take a stroll down that way myself and sniff the air.”

“There’s a great deal more to sniffing the air than one might realize,” said Neville, informatively.

But Jim Pooley had left the bar and naught was to be seen of his passing but foam sliding down a hastily emptied pint glass and a pub door that swung silently to and fro upon its hinge. A pub door that now lacked a NO TRAMPS sign.

“If our man the Jew is wandering hereabouts,” said Jim to himself upon spying it, “there is no point in discouraging the arrival of the goose that may just be about to lay the proverbial golden egg.”

Norman would have cried if he’d heard that one.

Archroy stood alone upon his allotment patch, pipe jammed firmly between his teeth and grey swirls of smoke escaping the bowl at regulated intervals. His thumbs were clasped into his waistcoat pockets and there was a purposeful set to his features. Archroy was lost in thought. The sun sinking behind the chemical factory painted his features with a ruddy hue, the naturally anaemic Archroy appearing for once to look in the peak of health. Sighing heavily he withdrew from his pockets the five magic beans. Turning them again and again in his hand he wondered at their appearance.

They certainly were, how had the tramp put it, beans of great singularity. Of their shape, it could be said that they were irregular. Certainly but for their hue and texture they presented few similarities. There was a tropical look to them; they seemed also if held in certain lights to show some slight signs of luminescence.

Yes they were singular beans indeed, but magic? The tramp had hinted that the term was somewhat open-ended to say the least. Beanstalk material perhaps? That was too obvious, thought Archroy, some other magic quality then? Could these beans cure leprosy, impassion virgins, bestow immortality? Could beans such as these unburden a man of a suspect spouse?

Archroy held up the largest of the beans and squinted at it in perplexity. Surely it was slightly larger, slightly better formed than it had been upon his last inspection. He knelt down and placed the beans in a row upon the top of his tobacco tin. “Well I never did,” said Archroy, “now there is a thing.”

Suddenly Archroy remembered a science fiction film he had seen on the television at the New Inn. These seed pods came down from outer space and grew into people, then while you were asleep they took over your mind. He had never understood what had happened to the real people when their duplicates took over. Still, it had been a good film and it made him feel rather uneasy. He examined each bean in turn. None resembled him in the least, except for one that had a bit on it that looked a little like the lobe of his right ear. “Good Lord,” said Archroy, “say it isn’t true.”

“It’s not true,” said John Omally, who was developing a useful knack of sneaking up on folk.

“John,” said Archroy, who had seen Omally coming, “how much would you give me for five magic beans?”

Omally took up one of the suspect items and turned it on his palm. “Have you as yet discovered in what way their magic properties manifest themselves?”

“Sadly no,” said Archroy, “I fear that I may not have the time to develop the proposition to any satisfactory extent, being an individual sorely put upon by the fates to the degree that I have hardly a minute to myself nowadays.”

“That is a great shame,” said John, who knew a rat when somebody thrust one up his nose for a sniff. “Their value I feel would be greatly enhanced if their use could be determined. In their present state I doubt that they are worth more than the price of a pint.”

Archroy sniffed disdainfully, his trusty Morris Minor exchanged for the price of a pint, the injustice of it. “I have a feeling that large things may be expected of these beans, great oaks from little acorns as it were.”

“There is little of the acorn in these beans,” said Omally. “More of the mango, I think, or possibly the Amazonian sprout.”

“Exotic fruit and veg are always at a premium,” said Archroy. “Especially when home grown, on an allotment such as this perhaps.”

Omally nodded thoughtfully. “I will tell you what I will do Archroy,” said he. “We will go down to my plot, select a likely spot and there under your supervision we shall plant one of these magic beans, we will nurture it with loving care, water it when we think fit and generally pamper its growth until we see what develops. We will both take this moment a solemn vow that neither of us will uproot it or tamper with it in any way and that whatever should appear will be split fifty-fifty should it prove profitable.”

Archroy said, “I feel that you will have the better half of the deal, Omally, although I am sure that this is unintentional upon your part and that you act purely out of a spirit of friendship and cameraderie.”

“The beans are certainly worthless at this moment,” said Omally ingeniously. “And the responsibility of what grows upon an allotment is solely that of the tenant. What for instance if your beans prove to be the seeds of some forbidden and illegal drug or some poison cactus, will you take half the responsibility then?”

Archroy thought for a moment. “Let us not talk of such depressing things, rather let us enter into this venture with the spirit of enterprise and the hope of fine things to come.”

Omally shook his companion by the hand and the two swore a great covenant that fell only slightly short of blood brotherhood. Without further ado they strode to Omally’s plot, selected a space which they marked with a bean pole, and planted the magic bean.

“We shall water it tomorrow night,” said Omally, “then together watch its progress. This project must be maintained in total secrecy,” he added, tapping his nose significantly. “Come now, let us adjourn to my rooms and drink a toast to our success, there is something I should like to discuss with you in private.”

Jim Pooley watched the two botanical conspirators vanish into the distance from his nest in the long grass. Emerging stiffly, stretching his legs and twisting his neck, he drew himself erect. With many furtive sideways glances, stealthily he stole over to Omally’s plot and dug up the magic bean, which he wiped clean of dirt and secreted in his coat pocket. With devious care he selected a seed potato from the sack at Omally’s shed door and planted this in the place of the bean, erasing all traces of his treachery with a practised hand.

Then with a melodramatic chuckle and light feet Jim Pooley departed the St Mary’s Allotment.

Professor Slocombe lived in a large rambling Georgian house on Brentford’s Butts Estate. The house had been the property of the Slocombes through numerous generations and the professor’s ancestry could be traced back to Brentford’s earliest inhabitants. Therefore the Professor, whose string of doctorates, master’s degrees and obscure testimonials ran in letters after his name like some Einsteinian calculation, had a deep and profound love for the place. He had produced privately a vast tome entitled:

THE COMPLETE AND ABSOLUTE HISTORY OF BRENTFORD

Being a study of the various unusual and extradictionary circumstances that have prevailed throughout History and which have in their way contributed to the unique visual and asthetic aspects inherent in both landscape and people of this locality. Giving also especial reference to religious dogma, racial type, ethnic groupings and vegetation indigenous to the area.

The Professor was constantly revising this mighty volume. His researches had of late taken him into uncharted regions of the occult and the esoteric. Most of the Professor’s time was spent in his study, his private library rivalling that of the Bodleian. Showcases packed with strange objects lined the walls, working models of da Vinciesque flying machines, stuffed beasts of mythical origin, brass astrolabes, charts of the heavens, rows of apothecary jars, pickled homunculi and dried mandragora lined each available inch of shelf space and spilled off into every corner, nook and cranny. The whole effect was one to summon up visions of medieval alchemists bent over their seething cauldrons in search of the philosopher’s stone. The professor himself was white-haired and decrepit, walking only with the aid of an ivory-topped cane. His eyes, however, glittered with a fierce and vibrant energy.

Fulfilling as he did the role of ornamental hermit, the Professor made one daily appearance upon the streets of Brentford. This ritual was accompanied by much ceremony and involved him making a slow perambulation about Brentford’s boundaries. Clad on even the warmest of days in a striking black coat with astrakhan collar, his white hair streaming behind him, this venerable gentleman trod his weary morning path, never a pace out of step with that of the day previous.

Jim Pooley said that should this phenomenon cease, like the ravens leaving the Tower of London, it would spell doom and no good whatever to this sceptred isle. Jim was a regular visitor to the Professor, acting as he did as self-appointed gardener, and held the aged person in great reverence.

He had once taught the Professor to play darts, reasoning that excellence in this particular form of pub sport was entirely the product of skill and much practice, both of which Jim had to a high degree. He had explained the rules and handed the Professor a set of darts. The old man had taken one or two wild throws at the board with little success. Then, pausing for a moment, he took several snippings from the flights with a pair of nail scissors, licked the points and proceeded to beat Jim Pooley, one of the Swan’s most eminent dart players, to the tune of £10. Pooley assumed that he had either become subject to some subtle form of hypnosis or that the Professor was a master of telekinesis. What ever the case the Professor earned Jim’s undying admiration. He did not even resent the loss of the £10, because he was never a man to undervalue education.

This particular warm spring evening the Professor sat at his desk examining a crumbling copy of the Necronomicon through an oversized magnifying glass. A soft breeze rustled amongst the honeysuckle which encircled the open French windows and from not far off the Memorial Library clock struck eight o’clock.

The Professor made several jottings in a school exercise book and without looking up said, “Are you going to skulk about out there all evening, Jim Pooley, or will you join me for a small sherry?”

“I will join you for a sherry,” said Jim, who showed no surprise whatever at the Professor’s uncanny perception, “but as to a small one, that is a matter I suggest we discuss.”

The Professor rang a tiny Indian brass bell that lay half hidden among the crowded papers upon his desk. There was a knock and the study door swung open to reveal an elderly retainer, if anything even more white-haired and ancient than the Professor himself.

“Would it be the sherry, sir?” said the ancient, proffering a silver tray upon which rested a filled crystal decanter and two minuscule glasses.

“It would indeed, Gammon, leave it there if you would.” The Professor indicated a delicately carved Siamese table beside the white marble fireplace. The elderly retainer did as he was bid and silently departed.

The Professor decanted two glasses of sherry and handed one to Jim. “So,” said he, “and to what do I owe this pleasure then, Jim?”

“It is this way,” Pooley began. “It is well known hereabouts and in particular to myself that you are a man of extensive knowledge, widely travelled and well versed in certain matters that remain to the man in the street inexplicable conundra.”

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?” said he.

“Well,” Jim continued, “I have recently had come into my possession an object which causes me some degree of perplexity.”

The Professor said “Indeed” once more.

“Yes,” said Jim. “How I came by it is irrelevant but I think that you as a learned and scholarly man might find it of some interest.”

The Professor nodded thoughtfully and replaced his glass upon the tray. “Well now, Jim,” he said. “Firstly, I must say that I am always pleased to see you, your visits are rarely devoid of interest, your conversation is generally stimulating and it is often a challenge to match wits with you over some of your more extravagant theories. Secondly, I must say now that whatever it is you have with you is no doubt something of great singularity but that should it be anything short of the philosopher’s stone or one of the hydra’s teeth I do not wish to purchase it.”

Pooley’s face took on a wounded expression.

“So, if we understand each other completely I will gladly examine the object which you have in your possession and give you whatever information I can regarding it should the thing prove to be genuine.”

Pooley nodded and withdrew from his pocket the magic bean, which had been carefully wrapped in his despicable handkerchief.

“Only the object,” said the Professor, eyeing Pooley’s hankie with disgust, “I have no wish to contract some deadly virus from that hideous rag.”

Pooley unwrapped the. bean and handed it to the Professor. Jim noticed that it seemed slightly larger than upon previous inspection and he also noticed the unusual expression that had crossed the Professor’s face. The usually benign countenance had become distorted, the colour, what little there was of it, had drained from his face, and a blue tinge had crept across his lips. This grotesque manifestation lasted only for a moment or two before the Professor regained his composure.

“Put it over there on to that marble base,” he said with a quavering voice. Pooley, shaken by the Professor’s terrifying reaction, obeyed without hesitation.

“Put that glass dome over it,” the Professor said. Pooley did so.

“Are you all right, Professor?” he asked in a voice of some concern. “Can I get you a glass of water or anything?”

“No,” said the Professor, “no, no, I’ll be all right, it’s just that, well,” he looked Pooley squarely in the eye, “where did you get that thing?”

“I found it,” said Pooley who had no intention of giving very much away.

“Where though, where did you find it?”

Pooley stroked his chin. Clearly the bean had well rattled the old gentleman, clearly it was more than just any old bean, it was indeed a bean of great singularity, therefore possibly a bean of great value. He would not mention that Archroy had four more of them. “It is valuable then?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Where did you find it?” the Professor repeated in a voice of grave concern.

“I dug it up,” said Jim.

The Professor gripped Pooley’s lapels in his sinewy fingers and made some attempt to shake him vigorously. The effort, however, exhausted him and he sank back into the armchair. “Jim,” he said in a tone of such sincerity that Pooley realized that something was about to happen which would not be to his advantage. “Jim you have there” – he indicated the bean beneath the glass dome – “something, if I am not mistaken, and I sadly fear that I am not, something so heinous that it is best not spoken of. I only hope that you have not had it in your possession long enough to become contaminated by it.”

“Contaminated!” Pooley yanked his handkerchief out of his pocket and hurled it into the fire which blazed away in the hearth no matter what the season. “What is it?” said Pooley, a worried sweat breaking out on his brow. “Is it poison then?”

“Worse than that, I fear.”

Worse than poison? Pooley’s mind turned several somersaults. What could be worse than poison in a bean?

“Help me up if you please.” Pooley aided the Professor to one of the massive bookcases flanking the study door. “That green volume with the gold lettering, hand me that down if you will.” Pooley obliged and the Professor placed the great book upon his desk and leafed slowly through the pages.

“My glass, if you would.” Pooley handed him the magnifier and peered over the ancient’s shoulder. To his dismay the book was written in Latin. There was, however, on a facing page covered by a slip of tissue paper an illustration in fading colours of a bean apparently identical to that which now rested beneath the dome. The Professor ran his glass to and fro across the page, raising his eye occasionally to take in both bean and illustration. Then, sitting back in his chair with a sigh, he said, “You’ve certainly pulled off the big one this time, Jim.”

Pooley, uncertain whether or not this was meant as a compliment, remained silent.

“Phaseolus Satanicus,” the Professor said, “Phaseolus being in general the genus of the ever popular and edible bean, Satanicus being quite another matter. Now this book” – he tapped at the vellum page with his exquisite fingertip – “this book is the work of one James Murrell, known as the Hadleigh Seer, who enumerated and copied the masterworks, astrological charts and almanacs of previous and largely forgotten mages and minor wizards. Little remains of his work, but I have through means that I care not to divulge come into the possession of this one volume. It is a book entirely dedicated to the detailed study of what you might term magical herbs, spices, seeds and beans. It lists the pharmaceutical, thaumaturgical and metaphysical uses of these and includes within its skin bindings certain notes upon plants and seedlings which the ancients referred to as sacred. Either because of their mindbending qualities when distilled or because they possessed certain characteristics which were outside the scope of normal explanation.”

“So there are magical properties adherent to this particular bean then?” said Pooley.

“I should not care to call them magical,” said the Professor, “but let me tell you that this bean of yours pays allegiance to the powers of darkness to a point that it is better not thought of, let alone mentioned in the public bar of the Flying Swan.”

“I prefer to patronize the saloon bar actually,” said Pooley, “but pray continue, I find your monologue fascinating.”

“I shall read to you directly from the book,” said the Professor, “then when I have finished we shall see if you still find my monologue fascinating.”

Pooley poured himself yet another sherry and wondered whether he might interest the Professor in a home-brew lager kit.

“‘Phaseolus Satanicus’,” the Professor read once more. “This first passage is a loose translation from the Greek. ‘And when the casket was opened and when the evil one set his burning hoof upon the plains of earth, then did Pandora weep those five bitter tears. And where those tears fell on the fields of men there did they take root and flourish withal. And Ephimetheus seeing the ill work that his wife had performed snatched forth those five dark saplings and cast them into the places of absolute night from whence should man go onward to seek them then surely he should never more return.’”

“That’s all very well,” said Jim Pooley.

“The next quotation comes from Jean-Francois Champollion, 1790-1832, the man who originally deciphered the Egyptian hieroglyphic system. ‘Anubis stared upon the manchild that had come before him and questioned him over his possessions and the pharaoh did answer saying I bear seventeen oxen, fifteen caskets of gold and precious stones. Carvings and set tableaus of rich embellishment and the five that dwell within the sacred house where none may tread. And Anubis took fright, even he that stands guardian over the realms of the beyond was afeared and he turned back the manchild that stood before the sacred river saying never shall you cross until your weight is above the holy balance. Which never can it be for the five set the scales heavily against you.’”

Pooley reached for the sherry decanter but found to his dismay that it was empty. “This five whatever they are sound somewhat sinister,” said he, “but the threat seems also a trifle nebulous.”

The Professor looked up from his antique tome. “This book was handwritten some three centuries ago,” said he, “not by some casual dilettante of the occult but by a mage of the first order. I have given you two quotations which he sought out, neither of which seem to impress you very much. Now I shall read to you what James Murrel wrote in his own hand regarding the five beans which had at the time of his writing come by means unfathomable into his possession. ‘I am plagued this evening as I write with thoughts of the five I have here before me. Their echoes are strong and their power terrific. My ears take in strange cries that come not from an earthly throat and visions dance before my eyes whose very nature and habit appal me and fill my soul with dark horror. I know now what these may be and what, if they were to receive the touch of the dark one, they might become. It is my intention to destroy them by fire and by water and by the power of the mother church. Would that I had never set eyes upon them for no more will sleep come unto me a blessed healer.’” The Professor slammed shut the book. “The illustration of the bean is still clear in Murrel’s hand, there can be no mistake.”