The Parliament of Blood (13 page)

It was dark by the time Sir William's cab drew up outside Lord Ruthven's imposing residence. It was a large house, perhaps a hundred years old, set back from the main road and with some small grounds of its own. The place was a black silhouette against the grey of the smoggy evening. The blank windows were like the eye sockets of an old skull. The pale, chipped stone steps that led to the door were its broken teeth …

The cab driver shivered and drew his cloak close about him. His horse whinnied nervously and dragged an impatient hoof through the gravel.

‘I shan't be long,' Sir William assured them.

The door opened even before he pulled the bell. A thin, almost emaciated man with jutting cheekbones stood in the doorway. He said nothing, staring down at Sir William through deep, dark eyes.

‘Sir William Protheroe. For Lord Ruthven.' Sir William smiled. ‘Please let him know I am here.'

The manservant hesitated long enough to show he was
deciding what to do rather than being told. Then he led Sir William through to the drawing room. Heavy curtains were drawn across the bay windows, and the lamps were turned down so low that the middle of the room was a black pool.

In the blackness, something stirred. A shape, a darkness moved slowly towards Sir William. It gradually coalesced into a figure. Sir William let out his breath in relief as he recognised Lord Ruthven.

‘To what do I owe this honour?' Lord Ruthven asked. ‘Have you perhaps found the missing canopic jar?'

‘I am afraid not.'

‘Pity.' Lord Ruthven turned up the nearest lamp and the shadows shrank away. ‘Forgive me, I was asleep. So, is this a social call? It is too late for tea and too early for dinner.' He moved to the next wall lamp.

The room seemed almost as dark even with the lights turned up. The carpet was a deep but faded red. The furniture was dark oak, the fabrics all burgundy and scarlet. A clock on the mantelpiece above the dying red embers of a fire stood on a raised wooden plinth that looked as though it had once been covered with a glass dome. There was no dome now. No glass anywhere, except hidden behind the heavy curtains.

‘I came to ask your advice,' Sir William said.

‘How flattering.'

‘There are some things which recently have disturbed me. Scared me, even.'

‘Such as?' Lord Ruthven asked cautiously.

‘Oh, I don't know.' Sir William stood up, walking slowly round the room and noting the layer of dust over everything. Aware of his host's eyes following him. ‘The business with the mummy.'

‘A harmless prank.'

‘I admit that seems likely, but we really don't know do we? Then there is the unfortunate death of the photographer, Denning.'

‘An accident.'

Sir William nodded. ‘Perhaps. Again, perhaps. He took some very strange photographs, you know.'

Lord Ruthven seemed to straighten in his chair. ‘I did not.'

‘No. Nor did whoever killed him.' He hesitated, waiting for Lord Ruthven to express surprise. But there was only silence. ‘I did wonder if he was killed to prevent him taking photographs of the mummy of Orabis.'

‘And why would anyone want to prevent that?'

‘Ah, well, if we still had the mummy we could photograph it and find out.'

‘A pity then that it is lost.'

‘As you say.'

‘And what,' Lord Ruthven asked, ‘do you think photographs of the mummy would have shown?'

Sir William turned to look directly as Lord Ruthven. ‘Nothing,' he said. ‘And I mean literally nothing. You see, I had the mummy photographed that afternoon, before Denning died.'

‘And you have seen the photographs?'

‘I have.'

Lord Ruthven sank back into his chair. ‘Then you know,' he said softly.

Sir William took three rapid paces towards Lord Ruthven. ‘No, sir – I do not know!' he declared. ‘But it seems that
you
do. You know why the mummy cannot be photographed. And I think you know because you yourself do not show up in photographs.'

Lord Ruthven's mouth opened in surprise.

‘Oh yes,' Sir William lied, ‘I have spent the best part of two days looking for a single photograph of you. And there is not one. Not even,' he went on more slowly, more quietly, ‘the one that Fox Talbot's assistant secretly took of you all those years ago in Lacock.'

The door creaked slightly as it opened. The gaunt figure of the manservant stood framed in the pale glow from the hall outside.

Lord Ruthven stood up. ‘I have to go now,' he said. ‘If you will excuse me.'

‘Of course,' Sir William muttered, disappointed at the interruption. He sensed that he had been about to discover something important, but he feared the moment was gone.

Lord Ruthven reached out to shake Sir William's hand, and his own was ice cold. ‘But,' he said quietly, ‘we must talk again. Soon.' He nodded, and Sir William could again see the worry in the man's dark eyes. ‘And I shall tell you what scares me.'

The headstones looked as if they had been pushed up through the mist. Eddie was sitting on the low wall at the edge of the graveyard, swinging his feet and hugging himself against the damp cold of the evening. If Charlie had been some rich kid – or even someone with a family – he'd not have been rushed into the ground.

As it was, he was in the coffin and under the earth in a couple of days. If there had been an inquest it was probably over in minutes. It didn't seem fair. But then Charlie's death was hardly fair. Eddie had only discovered that afternoon from Eve that there had been a short service on Sunday evening. She and Mikey had been there. Just them and the priest.

If he'd known, he'd have gone. But the best Eddie could do now – the least he could do – was sit and keep poor Charlie company in the cold of the night. The evening had drawn in and the mist was getting thicker. Eddie realised he could no longer see the low mound of earth that covered his friend. No headstone yet, of course. You needed to wait for the ground to settle. And who'd buy a headstone for a kid like Charlie anyway? Who'd even know he was there …?

He pushed himself off the wall and stuffed his hands into his pockets. There was a scraping, creaking sound from somewhere in the fog. Another grave being dug, maybe. Or someone else visiting a dearly departed. Eddie didn't really care. The cold was numbing his thoughts and emotions as well as his fingers and toes.

Then suddenly he was alert again. Staring into the
murky evening at the mound of earth – at the ragged hole in it. Someone had been digging at Charlie's grave. Eddie was running, skidding to a halt on the muddy ground at the edge and looking in. He could just make out the splintered wood of the coffin. He looked round – angry, afraid, shocked.

And somewhere in the fog he could hear laughter. Mocking, high-pitched laughter, like a young woman. Or a child. There was a shape, barely more than a shadow, moving away into the gloom. Slipping and sliding in his haste, Eddie followed, desperate not to lose whoever it was in the foggy night.

He had almost caught up with the figure when they reached the gate to the main road outside. If they knew they were being followed, they gave no sign. Despite being almost close enough to catch hold of the figure, Eddie could barely see it through the gloom. A small man hardly bigger than Eddie. But more than that he could not tell.

It looked as though he would never find out, because in the street outside the graveyard was a carriage. Eddie could not see it. But he could hear the slam of the door, the stamp of the horses' feet and the rumble of the wheels on the cobbles.

Then the carriage clattered past him, horses pale as ghosts in the smog. Eddie leaped back out of the way. He almost fell. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the blood-red emblem on the carriage door – the ankh.

He stirred at her voice. Liz had sat beside her father since Malvern had left. He was sleeping deeply, peacefully, and she had convinced herself that she could leave him. Not for long. Just for an hour or two.

‘I have to go out,' she murmured, kissing him gently on the cold cheek. ‘I won't be long, I promise.'

He stirred, eyes flickering. His irises were wide and dark as he tried to focus. ‘Elizabeth?'

‘It's all right. I'll stay if you want me to. But …'

‘I'm …' He was still half asleep, still confused. ‘I need …'

‘Do you want a drink? There's some soup left if you'd like.'

He shook his head. ‘Don't know,' he admitted drowsily. ‘Need … something.'

‘A book?' Liz wondered. ‘Your sermons?' He was still shaking his head slowly, rolling it on the pillow. She remembered how agitated he had been the night before. ‘You mentioned a box.'

Her father was still. His brow wrinkled and his eyes seemed more alert for a moment. ‘My box. Yes. Yes – my box.'

‘I don't know what box you mean. Is it in your study?'

‘Silver box,' he said, slipping back into sleep even as he was speaking. As if just the thought of it was a comfort. ‘Don't open it. You mustn't … Bottom left drawer of my desk …' Then he was asleep again.

Liz sat with him until it was almost eight. Then, satisfied that he was once again calm, she changed quickly into
her best dress. She felt she ought to thank Malvern in some way for his concern and the invitation. But all she could think to give him was a jar of her father's home-made raspberry jam.

As she took a jar from the pantry and put it on the kitchen table, Liz remembered the silver box and went to look for it. The desk drawer was locked, but her father kept the small key tucked into the edge of the blotter.

The silver box was the only thing in the drawer. It was about six inches square and four inches deep and looked very old. The silver had tarnished, and some of it came off black on her hand. There was a simple clasp holding the lid shut, and a cross stood proud of the top. It reminded Liz of the box her father had used to keep communion wafers in, only larger. Did he really want this old silver box with him? It was cold and stained …

The sound of knocking at the door startled her. She put the box back in the desk drawer and started to close it. Then she stopped. She was going out, leaving her father on his own. He had asked her to do just one thing – to bring him this box.

‘I'll be there directly,' she called down the hall as she hurried upstairs to kiss her sleeping father gently goodbye.

There was a line of carriages. Eddie could see the one with the red ankh symbol on the door. He'd been lucky to find a cab so quickly, and even luckier he had a few coins in his pocket.

His cab had followed the carriage through London, and was now on the other side of the street from it. Eddie climbed out and gave a handful of coins to the driver.

From further along, Eddie was able to angle himself to see the carriage as the door finally opened. But the person who got out was certainly not the person he had seen at the graveyard. It was a woman with long, black hair and pale delicate features. She was wearing a heavy, dark cloak that opened slightly as she climbed down from the carriage, to reveal a long scarlet dress.