The Parliament of Blood (4 page)

They cut through the courtyard and back into the Museum. Ahead of him, George could see Eddie at the main doors, which were standing slightly open. Wisps of fog were curling round the frame and edging into the Museum. George caught up with Eddie and helped him pull the doors open fully. Outside, the night was grey
smudged with vague lights from the street and nearby buildings.

In the murk ahead of them, George could make out a figure – pale, lurching its way out of the Museum gates and on to the street outside.

‘Come on!' Eddie shouted, haring down the steps. George was close behind him – they were almost there. ‘We've got him!'

The carriage seemed to erupt out of the fog, clattering past George and Eddie and after the pale figure stumbling slowly along the pavement. A strip of cloth trailed from one leg. The carriage slowed, and the door on the pavement side swung open. Black in the grey fog. George could just make out a design painted on the door – a shape, a device. Like the gold ornament round the mummy's neck, only in scarlet. A cross, with the top bar replaced by a loop. An ‘ankh', Brinson had called it.

‘What's he doing?' Eddie muttered.

But no one got out of the carriage. Instead, the bizarre figure on the pavement turned and climbed inside.

‘Quick!' George shouted, realising they were about to lose their quarry. But he was too late. The door was already closing. A fog-muffled whip-crack spurred the horses into motion and the carriage clattered away.

George and Eddie kept running. But the carriage was fading into the fog. Its shape was indistinct, then it was gone, swallowed up by the grey night.

‘That settles it,' Eddie said. He slowed to a halt, head down and hands on knees as he gasped for breath. ‘No one
who's thousands of years old could have a blooming cab waiting.'

It wasn't until Henry Malvern clapped his hands together, laughed, and declared it was the most impressive piece of theatre he had seen for a long while that Liz realised it must all be an act.

She looked round for Sir William, and saw he was deep in conversation with a tall, important-looking man. There was no sign of either George or Eddie.

‘Indeed,' she said, picking up on his earlier comment, ‘a most impressive piece of acting even in my rather less experienced opinion.'

‘You have some experience of the theatre?' Malvern said. ‘I'm sorry, I do apologise, I did not catch your name – Miss …?'

‘Miss Oldfield.' She felt her heart quicken at the attention.

Malvern's mouth opened slightly, as if in recognition. ‘Of course.' He nodded. ‘Tell me, Miss Oldfield, do you have a relative in holy orders? An uncle, perhaps? Or …'

‘My father,' Liz exclaimed in surprise. ‘He is all but retired now. You know him?'

‘Not really. Our paths happened to cross some years ago. I doubt he would remember me.'

‘Nevertheless,' Liz said, ‘I shall remember you to my father.'

‘Please do not bother yourself, or him.' Malvern's smile
became a slight frown. ‘We met only briefly. At a religious ceremony some years ago.' The smile returned. ‘As I recall, he was somewhat disapproving of the theatre.'

‘He has not mellowed in his opinion,' Liz confessed.

‘But you mentioned that you have some interest in the art of performance. Can I take it that you do not share your father's feelings on the subject?'

‘Indeed not.' Realising she had said this rather emphatically, Liz quickly added: ‘I respect his opinions of course. But no, I do not share them. In fact, though my father would be somewhat annoyed if he found out, I very much enjoy the theatre and am a member of a small acting group that meets at the Chistleton Theatre.'

‘Are you a good actress, Miss Oldfield?'

The boldness of the question, along with the scrutiny of Malvern's deep, dark eyes unsettled Liz. ‘Goodness, that isn't for me to say. But Mr Jessop seems to think that I have some small talent. I haven't taken any leading roles, but that is partly because I need to look after Father and cannot always guarantee to be available.'

Malvern nodded slowly. ‘I think perhaps you are unduly modest, Miss Oldfield. I pride myself on being a good judge and I would say that you most definitely have a stage presence.'

‘Do you think so?'

Malvern laughed at her enthusiasm. ‘I am sure of it.'

Liz took a deep breath. ‘Thank you. You have no idea how much I value your opinion, just as I respect and envy your own talent, Mr Malvern.' Slightly overwhelmed by
the way the conversation had gone, Liz needed some fresh air and she was aware of how late it must be. ‘If you will excuse me, I should be getting back home to Father.'

‘Indeed. I have much to do myself. We are rehearsing for a new production of
Camille
. Do you know it?'

‘By Dumas,' Liz said automatically. ‘I have seen it, yes. A very sad play.'

‘About a woman who is full of life. And death.' Malvern rubbed his chin as he considered. ‘There is something …' He hesitated, then went on: ‘I wonder, Miss Oldfield, perhaps you would care to see a rehearsal at the Parthenon?'

‘I would find that most instructive,' Liz said, surprised at the offer. ‘And I should like it very much.'

‘Then, please, feel free to visit. We rehearse every evening this week and next, from six o'clock. And I must be getting back to see how they have fared without me tonight.'

Without realising, Liz had allowed Malvern to take her arm and walk her to the top of the stairs.

‘May I find you a cab?' Malvern was asking. ‘Or do you have other arrangements?'

‘No,' she said, her mouth dry and her face flushed. ‘A cab will be fine. Thank you.'

When George left for work in the morning, Eddie left for school. But, whereas George always went to work, Eddie did not always go to school.

The teacher did not seem to mind when Eddie was
absent. In fact, from the way Eddie was told off and shouted at when he was there, he imagined the teacher was as happy as Eddie on those days when he did not put in an appearance.

Eddie felt he had made an effort. After all he could read (a bit) and write (just about) and do his sums (with money anyway). So there did not seem to be an awful lot of point in actually going to school, other than to keep George and Sir William happy.

Which was why he told neither of them that he rarely went. That just wouldn't be fair on them. Though if they knew how Eddie was helping them this cold, February morning, they would be impressed, he decided.

He met the others round the back of the workhouse. The workhouse children that weren't too old were supposed to go to school as well. Most of them did, but there were a few who avoided school, like Eddie. There were others who were skiving off whatever work the work-house master Mr Pearce had set them.

The building was made of dark brick, with small arched windows covered with iron bars. Rising into the cold pale light of the morning and silhouetted against the weak sun, it looked like a medieval fortress. From what the children had told him, Eddie thought it was about as inviting and comfortable. Every time he saw it, he gave thanks for the series of events that had brought him to George Archer's house rather than here.

Certainly, Eddie had more in common with the work-house kids than he did with most of the children in his
class at the elementary school. Eddie could have been one of them as he leaned against the back wall of the building. There was Charlie, who was about the same age as Eddie with an untidy mop of sandy-coloured hair, and Jack who had stopped going to school so much when he got bullied. Despite that, Jack was always grinning, no matter what happened. Charlie said that Jack grinned even when Mr Pearce the workhouse master was beating him. Then there was Mikey who never said anything and was rumoured to be deaf too, though no one knew for sure, and Eve – the only girl. Her hair was cut just as short as the boys', which she hated. She was all right, was Eve.

In fact, they were all good mates, Eddie thought. There used to be more of them, but children seemed to drift away from the workhouse, often without any goodbye or even a hint they were thinking of moving on. Like Charlie's best mate Josh who just left one night. Or little Florence who had seemed to be such a friend to Eve – one morning she just wasn't there any more. As he spoke, Eddie looked round at his friends, knowing that tomorrow any one of them might have moved on to try their meagre luck elsewhere …

Mikey was sitting cross-legged on the ground, picking up bits of gravel and dropping them again. The others were listening intently to Eddie's story. He had just reached the part where the mummy escaped from the British Museum and lurched off into the foggy night.

‘So this mummy thing, what, came back to life?' Charlie said.

‘You're making it up,' Jack muttered.

‘I'm not,' Eddie assured them. ‘Anyway, what we reckon is that it wasn't a mummy at all. Just someone pretending.'

‘So, who was he?' Eve asked. She sounded like she wasn't that bothered, but her eyes were gleaming with interest.

‘Yeah, did the peelers take him away and lock him up?' Charlie asked enthusiastically.

‘No, because we
didn't
catch him. We gave him a good chase, but it had all been planned out, you see and there was a carriage waiting. I thought it was a cab, but then as the door opened and the mummy bloke got in, I saw there was this design on the door. Like you see a coat of arms on posh carriage doors sometimes. Only it was just a shape. Like this.' He crouched down and drew in the dust on the ground with his finger – the shape of the ankh engraved on the carriage door.

‘Never seen anything like that before,' Charlie said.

‘Me neither,' Jack agreed.

Even Mikey was shaking his head.

‘You want us to let you know if we see a carriage with that on it?' Eve asked.

‘I want more than that,' Eddie said. ‘This could be really important.'

‘So?' Charlie asked.

‘So, I want you, and anyone else you can get to help, to go looking. Maybe we can find this carriage and discover who it belongs to. Maybe we can help solve the mystery of the mummy.'

Eve sniffed. ‘What's in it for us?'

Eddie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Thruppence. Sixpence maybe. Depends if we find the carriage.'

Eve nodded. ‘Better get started, then.'

‘Better get running, then,' Charlie said urgently. ‘Pearce is coming.'

As he spoke a man appeared round the end of the building. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and with a large beer belly. His face was twisted into a malevolent leer and he was hefting a wooden cudgel in one beefy hand. When he caught sight of the children, his expression became even more unpleasant and he smacked the cudgel into the palm of his free hand.

‘What are you lot doing hanging round here?' he demanded. His voice sounded like the gravel that Mikey was playing with. ‘Should be at school or working, not loitering.'

‘Scarper,' Charlie hissed.