The Parliament of Blood (8 page)

‘Why indeed? But the ways and thoughts of Fleet Street are a law unto themselves.'

‘We will be discreet, if that is what you are suggesting. Myself and my assistant are the only ones who know where the mummy was supplied from. Even Brinson knows only that it came from a secondary collection linked to the Museum's Egyptian Department.' That was not strictly true, of course. But Sir William was not about to try to explain Eddie to Lord Ruthven and he was wary of mentioning the photographs to anyone.

‘More than that.' Lord Ruthven said. ‘We, that is, the Committee, feel it would be sensible if all connected artefacts were removed from your department. If we need to produce them at a later date for whatever reason, they can be seen to be stored elsewhere.'

Sir William frowned. ‘Connected artefacts?'

‘The sarcophagus, for example.'

‘I hardly think it is likely that the newspapers will find their way into hidden vaults, which they are unaware even exist, to look at an empty sarcophagus.'

‘Nevertheless, we feel it is best if the sarcophagus is taken into safe-keeping elsewhere.' There was an edge of impatience in Lord Ruthven's voice.

‘And where might that be?'

The impatience became annoyance. ‘That is no concern of yours, Protheroe.'

Sir William leaned across the desk. ‘Forgive me, but I think it is.'

Lord Ruthven stared back at him for several seconds. Then he looked away. He stood up, gathering his hat and gloves from a side table. ‘Very well, if you must know, and I suppose it is only right and proper, I am having the sarcophagus taken from the Egyptian Rooms to my club.'

‘Your club?' Sir William echoed in disbelief.

‘Where it won't attract unwanted attention and the interest of sensationalists. Can't have people coming from all over London to stare at the thing.' He turned towards the door.

‘This is the British Museum, sir,' Sir William said sharply. ‘Its very purpose is to attract people from all over London, and indeed further afield, to stare at things.'

Lord Ruthven turned in the doorway. ‘I think perhaps, on this matter, we must agree to differ. Let us not fall out over it though.' He put on his hat and began to pull on his gloves.

‘Very well,' Sir William conceded. ‘You have my permission, though I am sure you do not need it, to take the sarcophagus into protective custody. I really cannot see the point of removing something from one secret location and hiding it in another. But, as you say, it is hardly worth arguing about.'

‘Thank you. You know,' Ruthven went on, ‘I believe there is a vacancy at the Club. They don't come up very often and of course membership is by nomination only. I was wondering if I could put your name forward?'

Sir William blinked in surprise. ‘Forgive me, which club is that?'

‘More than just a club, you know. I believe the correct title is “the Society of Diabolic and Mystic Nominees”. We are very … exclusive.'

‘And very secretive,' Sir William said. ‘I am flattered and honoured, your grace. But I am quite happy with my own club and would hardly have the time or the stamina for two.'

‘The Atlantian Club?' Lord Ruthven smiled thinly, his moustache twitching. ‘You could resign.'

‘Dear Julius would never forgive me. As I say, I am grateful for the honour, but I am afraid I must decline.'

Lord Ruthven shrugged. ‘Very well.' He seemed about to leave, but then he paused, and turned back. ‘Oh, and the casket of canopic jars. Best we look after that too, away from prying eyes. Have it brought up from the vault, will you? I'll send someone to collect it this morning.'

Sir William stared at the closed door for several moments, the tips of his fingers tapping out a steady
rhythm on the blotter. So the sarcophagus and the jars – and how did Ruthven know about them? – were to be taken to Lord Ruthven's club. In a way that seemed strangely appropriate. For Sir William was aware that the Society of Diabolic and Mystic Nominees was better known by another name.

It was more commonly called the Damnation Club.

Eve had gone to work, which Eddie felt was a minor betrayal. Especially on a Saturday. She should have been out looking for the carriage like the rest of them, not weaving wicker baskets with the older girls and the women. Although actually they were meeting as before, not searching. Except Eve.

And Charlie, who hadn't turned up. Knowing Charlie, he might be out with the mudlarks – the kids down on the muddy banks of the Thames looking for anything that might have washed up. Anything they could sell or pawn or use.

‘He said he'd be here,' Jack pointed out. ‘He don't let you down, Charlie. If he says something he means it. Unless Pearce has got him cleaning out the kitchens or something. Pearce was waiting for him when he got in last night,' Jack went on. ‘He hardly had time to say anything to us before Pearce came and yanked him out the dormitory. But he said he'd be here. Seemed excited.'

‘What about?' Eddie asked. He felt a twinge of excitement himself – had Charlie found something?

‘Dunno,' Jack confessed. ‘He was talking to Mikey, wasn't he, Mikey?' He raised his voice and nodded vehemently to make Mikey understand. But the other boy stared back at him blankly.

‘We need to know if he found anything, and where he's been looking,' Eddie decided.

‘He might be in the kitchens,' Jack said. ‘Want me to go and look, Eddie?' he didn't sound enthusiastic.

Eddie could imagine what would happen to him if he got caught bunking off school. ‘All right,' he said. ‘But just a quick look. Any chance you might get seen, come straight back. Don't want you feeling the rough side of Pearce's belt like Charlie. If that's what's happened to him.'

Eddie watched Jack hurry off, round the side of the forbidding building.

‘Eddie.'

The voice was hesitant and nervous. Eddie spun round. But there was no one there. No one but himself and Mikey – and Mikey never said anything.

‘Eddie.' Firmer and more confident this time. Eddie's mouth dropped open.

‘You can talk,' he said to Mikey.

The other boy shuffled his feet and looked away. ‘Don't tell,' he said. ‘Charlie knows. He's the only one. But if I can't hear or speak, well – they leave me alone.'

‘Who do?' Eddie was outraged. Who frightened a kid so much he pretended to be deaf and dumb?

‘Me dad. Years ago, before I came here. If you can't talk you can't answer back. I used to answer back. But then …'
He shrugged. ‘I stopped. Don't get hit so much then. Don't answer back, he said. So I didn't. Not ever.' He looked up at Eddie, eyes wide and scared. ‘Don't tell,' he said again.

‘Course not,' Eddie promised. ‘But, why talk now? Why to me?'

‘Cos of Charlie,' Mikey said. ‘I don't think he's in the kitchens. I don't think he got extra chores or nothing. I think they sent him away.'

‘Why?'

Mikey looked round, as if afraid that he might be overheard. Eddie felt unnerved by the boy's fear, and he looked round too. But they were completely alone. A sudden shaft of sunlight cut through the misty morning air and cast their shadows against the dark wall of the workhouse.

‘Why d'you think they sent Charlie away?' Eddie asked again. ‘What did he tell you, last night before Pearce came for him?'

Mikey took a deep breath, and his answer came out in an unpunctuated rush: ‘He said he found the carriage up west somewhere. A lamplighter's boy he knows told him where to look and there it was.'

Eddie put his hand on Mikey's shoulder. He could feel the boy trembling beneath his threadbare jacket. ‘Where? Did he say where the carriage was?'

‘In a side street. Back of some buildings. Posh clubs and stuff. Charlie said …' Mikey paused, looking over his shoulder before going on: ‘He said it was round the back of the Damnation Club.'

It took them several journeys. Since Sir William was not prepared to allow Lord Ruthven's men down into his archives, he and George carried the heavy casket between them. They struggled up the stone stairway that led from the vaults to the ground floor of the British Museum.

They left the large, rectangular casket in Sir William's office, where it took up most of the empty space in front of the desk. Then they went back for the canopic jars.

‘I was going to examine those photographs this morning,' George said. ‘See if I can discern anything unusual about them. I mean, about how they have been developed and printed up.'

‘It's a good thing we were able to get Pennyman to photograph this casket and the jars last night,' Sir William said. ‘At least we shall have a record of them.'

Sir William was tapping his finger thoughtfully against his chin. ‘There are some other photographs that might be of interest,' he said.

The Department's catalogues were kept in the work-room, shelved in a heavy, glass-fronted bookcase. Each of the leather-bound volumes had a number written on the spine in dark ink. The first of the books was an index which Sir William consulted.

‘Ah yes. Volume 17 is listed here as
Artwork, Paintings, Photographic
.' He replaced the index and removed volume 17 of the catalogue, which he handed to George.

George opened the book on the workbench so they
could both look at it. He turned through the heavy parchment pages until he reached a section headed ‘Photographic Items'.

‘Lens of polished glass that focuses light as if for a camera or camera obscura,' he read aloud from the first entry. ‘Discovered amongst artefacts dating from early Rome and showing signs of sophisticated machining.'

‘Fascinating,' Sir William said. ‘But not what we are concerned with at the present.' He turned the page. ‘This, I think, is more like it. Photographic Pictures …' He turned a few more pages, running his finger down the lists of catalogue numbers. ‘We have pictures of things that should not exist, pictures that were taken before the photographic process was invented. Sketches of some shroud in a church in Italy … And a section here of pictures that have apparent problems at the detail level. I would think that is where we should start.' He pointed to a complicated reference code made up of numbers and letters.

Sir William closed the book and replaced it on the shelf before hurrying back towards the stairs to the vault.

‘Did you know Professor Hemming?' George again asked as they made their way back down to the cellars.

‘Went to his funeral. But sadly I never met the man, though he was by all accounts a genius. Eccentric, but a genius. The Department was formed at his suggestion and most of the initial set of artefacts, including our mummy, came from his own collection. Ah, here we are.'

Sir William stopped in front of a dusty bookcase stuffed with envelopes and cardboard files.

There did not seem to be anything at all amiss with the photographs in the file. There were about twenty of them, spread out on George's desk as he examined them in his small office. Some were very old and faded. Others looked as if they might have been taken just a few days before, though they must have been ten years old at least if Xavier Hemming had put them there.