The Parliament of Blood (26 page)

‘I'm sorry,' George said. ‘It's very early. We should come back later. Your father will …' He broke off as Liz turned away. ‘What is it? What's wrong?'

It was not until they were inside, sitting in the small front room, that Liz told them of her father's sudden decline and death. George immediately moved to sit beside her, holding her hands in his. Sir William excused himself to make tea, and Eddie fidgeted with embarrassment.

‘Perhaps we should not have come,' George said. ‘If you'd like us to leave you in peace …?'

Liz shook her head. ‘No. No, I am glad you are here.
It seems a long time since I last saw you. So much has happened since, with Father and Marie and everything.'

‘Lots been happening to us too,' Eddie put in.

‘Later,' George mouthed at him.

‘Suit yourself,' Eddie said. ‘He
was
very old,' he told Liz.

‘Eddie!' George snapped back. He felt awful that he had not been there for Liz when she needed him.

But Liz smiled thinly. ‘Thank you, Eddie. He did seem it, though he wasn't so old really. Just frail. And I suppose I always expected …' She turned away, biting her lip. ‘He seems so much better now. So relaxed. At peace.'

Eddie looked alarmed. ‘You ain't still got him here, have you?'

‘No. He is laid out in the family crypt. At St Bardolph's. Just until the funeral.'

‘I am so sorry,' George said. ‘You should have let me know. I could have …'

But Liz was shaking her head. ‘I've been all right. Really I have. I am in a play at the Parthenon Theatre.'

‘With Henry Malvern?' George asked. Liz nodded, and he felt his heart sink.

‘He has been so very understanding,' she said. ‘Such a comfort.'

‘So, you didn't need me then,' George murmured.

If Liz heard him, she said nothing. Her voice had taken on a new strength as she described the play. Sir William returned with a pot of tea and poured a cup for each of them.

‘And with Marie Cuttler taken ill, it seems I am to play the lead role of Marguerite,' Liz finished.

‘That is excellent news,' Sir William enthused. ‘And despite your recent loss – for which I offer sincere condolences and sympathy – I am delighted to find you so well.'

‘I wish Marie was well,' Liz told him. ‘It's so strange. So like father. And so like the play.'

‘The play?' Eddie said. ‘What play?'

‘
The Lady of the Camellias
.'

Sir William set down his tea cup and leaned forward in his chair. ‘But
The Lady of the Camellias
, surely, is about a woman who dies from consumption. She weakens, grows pale, fades away. The white plague.'

‘That's right,' Liz said. ‘I think perhaps that is what Marie has. A wasting disease.'

George caught Sir William's eye and could tell they were both thinking the same thing. ‘Could be coincidence,' he said.

‘This play is occupying a lot of your time,' Sir William said.

‘Of course.'

‘Which would not be the case if Marie Cuttler were well enough to play the leading role.'

‘True.'

Eddie leaped to his feet. ‘Here – you don't think …?'

Sir William waved him to silence. ‘I think nothing. But I would like to meet Marie Cuttler. Possibly I can help.'

‘Do you think so?' Liz asked. ‘Of course, I shall take you to her hotel. Though it is early.'

‘Straight away, please,' Sir William said, in a tone that
left none of them any illusions about the urgency. ‘Oh, and if you have any, bring some garlic.'

Liz frowned. ‘I can look in the pantry. I think we have some.'

‘Why garlic?' Eddie asked.

‘A traditional defence. And they used it to bind Orabis in his coffin, remember.'

‘I can nick some from the market,' Eddie offered. George glared at him. ‘What?' Eddie demanded. ‘Important, isn't it?'

‘No, no, no,' Sir William shook his head. ‘Miss Oldfield – on the way I shall explain what is happening. But for now please find any garlic you can. And if your father had a silver crucifix, that would also help.'

The hotel room was in near darkness although the sun was shining brightly outside. The curtains were drawn, and the lamps were turned down low.

After Liz had quickly introduced them all to Marie, Sir William sent Eddie and George to the hotel kitchens to ask for more garlic. ‘How long have you been ill?' he asked as he felt for Marie's pulse.

‘Who can say?' she replied weakly. ‘When does tiredness become an illness? I'm just exhausted. I'm not as young as I used to be.'

Sir William reached up to tilt Marie's head gently to one side. The high collar of her nightgown reached up to her chin, and he regarded it suspiciously for a moment.

‘Something wrong?' Marie asked. ‘Are you a doctor?'

‘Oh no. No to both questions.' He stepped back, and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘As you say, tired and under the weather. Would you like me to open the curtains? It's such a lovely day and I'm sure the sunshine will do you good.'

‘No,' Marie said quickly. ‘Thank you, but the bright light gives me a headache.'

‘You do look very pale,' Liz said.

‘Oh I agree,' Sir William said quickly. ‘Do you have a mirror? I think you should see just how pale you look.'

Sir William watched carefully as Marie looked at herself in a small hand mirror from the dressing table. ‘I do look so tired,' she said. ‘So old.'

‘Perhaps some fresh air would help …?' Liz suggested.

Marie shook her head, passing the mirror back to Sir William. ‘Please. It's kind of you to come, but I am tired. Always so tired.'

‘You get some sleep,' Sir William told her. ‘I'm sure it's the best thing. And I'm sure you will recover soon. But if you will allow, I'd like to put some garlic out in the room.'

‘Garlic? What on earth for?'

‘The aroma clears the nasal passages and aids the breathing. I think you will find it most efficacious.'

‘I'm sure it will help,' Liz said.

‘Very well then.'

George and Eddie were back with several garlic bulbs. Together they separated the cloves and Sir William cut them in half with a pocket knife. He held one half clove to the outside of the door, squeezing it and smearing a
cross with the oil. They arranged the other pieces inside the door and along the window sill.

By the time they finished, Marie had lapsed into sleep.

‘Place your father's crucifix on the pillow, close to her,' Sir William told Liz. ‘Let's hope she will sleep peacefully now.'

‘Do you really think this is necessary?' Liz asked. Sir William had given a brief account of their various adventures and experiences in the cab on the way over to the hotel.

‘I do,' he said. ‘And let us hope it is enough.'

The woman in the bed stirred. She cried out in her sleep, and was suddenly awake. She sat up, looking round.

‘Are you there?'

The effort of talking made her cough, and she collapsed back on to the pillow. As she caught her breath, she reached for the cord hanging by the side of the bed.

‘Have my friends gone?' Marie asked the man who answered the bell.

‘They have, ma'am. I believe you were asleep and they did not wish to disturb you.'

‘They mean well.'

‘I'm sure they do. Is there anything else?'

‘Yes, please. As I say – they mean well. But the smell of this garlic is making me cough so much. Please have it removed. All of it. Every bit. And wash down the front of the door.'

Only when all the garlic had been cleared away did Marie turn her attention to the crucifix on the pillow beside her. She reached for it hesitantly. Touched it. Felt the burning heat and pulled her hand back. Then she folded the pillow in half, smothering the crucifix. She picked up the folded pillow and hurled it into the corner of the room.

Exhausted by the effort, she fell back.

‘Well done, my darling,' the figure standing close beside her said. ‘You will soon be well again, I promise.' He leaned over the bed. ‘You have my word.' She pulled down the collar of the nightgown as his lips brushed gently against it.

‘My word,' he whispered. ‘Written in blood.'

The archive beneath the Museum was enormous. Liz had never been down here before and she looked round in fascination. The fact that both George and Eddie seemed to take it for granted brought home to her how much she had missed them both. If only she had discovered this amazing place with them. But now there wasn't time to marvel at it, and the initial excitement was tinged with concern for Marie and sadness for her father.

‘So why didn't we look in this notebook before?' Eddie asked.

Sir William took down a large volume from a high shelf. The books were so tightly packed he had to tease it out gently. ‘We checked the catalogues, which describe the objects that Hemming kept in his collection.' He snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf, reaching for the next volume. ‘But Hemming
might
have included more information in his original notes. Now the notebooks, unlike the catalogues, are in date order. He listed things as
he acquired them. So, knowing from the catalogue the date he got hold of the other jars …'

He was already looking through the next volume of Hemming's notebooks. ‘Ah, yes. Here we are.' The smile froze on Sir William's face.

‘What is it?' Liz asked.

‘I think we can safely say that Hemming did indeed possess all five jars.'

‘So what's it say?' Eddie asked.

By way of answer, Sir William tilted the book so they could all see. ‘Nothing.'

The page was torn across, the bottom half missing.

‘Another dead end,' George said.

‘May I look?' Liz asked. It was probably no help, but she had noticed that the writing was smudged. As if Hemming had written his entry hurriedly and then closed the book without first blotting the ink. The notes about the mummy were smeared and had left several small inky stains on the opposite page.

Further down the page were more small blots of ink. Faint, but visible. On the opposite side to where the page had been torn out.

‘Look,' Liz said, putting the book down on a crate and pointing to the ink stains. ‘We should have borrowed Marie's mirror.'

Sir William coughed, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Actually, I have one with me. I brought it along in case Marie did not possess a mirror, so as to, er … Well, never mind.' He produced a small mirror, just a few inches
across, from his pocket and held it edge-on across the page.

‘Can you read it?' Eddie wanted to know. ‘What's it say? Give us a look!'

Liz struggled to make anything out from the smudged ink stains. ‘That might be “jar” I suppose. This smudged line – it looks like he crossed something out. But there's no way of knowing what.'