The Parliament of Blood Read online

  ‘But would you do it?’ Marie asked. ‘For me? And for Henry? Actually,’ she lowered her voice, ‘it was Henry who suggested I might ask you. He’s such a treasure, isn’t he?’

  ‘I …’ Still no words would come, and Liz looked from Marie to Malvern and back again.

  ‘Do you want to?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Yes!’ she blurted. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then we’ll make it work.’ Marie held up her hand to quell any protest. ‘I know your father doesn’t really approve. But we’ll sort it out, you’ll see.’ Before Liz could protest further, Marie put her hand to her forehead and sighed.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Marie nodded. ‘I felt a little dizzy, just for a moment. It’ll pass. Such an emotional scene.’

  Beneath her make-up, the actress seemed suddenly frail and tired.

  The young man was sitting patiently in the chair opposite Sir William’s desk. He had a battered briefcase on the floor beside the chair. As Eddie, George and Sir William arrived, he stood up, rubbing his hands together nervously.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me, Sir William. And at such a late hour.’ His voice was nasal and oily. He stopped rubbing his hands, and instead ran one of them over his thin, greasy, black hair. His jacket was a shade too small, and there were pale dots across the front of it where something had splashed.

  ‘Good evening,’ Sir William said. ‘And how may I help you? Eddie said you mentioned something about photography.’

  ‘And murder,’ George added quietly.

  The man sat down again and buried his face for a moment in his hands. When he looked up, Eddie could see how tired he seemed.

  ‘I’m afraid so. My name is Gilbert Pennyman,’ the man said. ‘I work as an apprentice and assistant to Mr Denning. Or rather, I did until today.’

  ‘Mr Bernard Denning, the photographer?’ Sir William said.

  Pennyman nodded. ‘The same.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Eddie asked. ‘He give you the boot?’

  George glared and Sir William waved him to silence.

  ‘I was at work early this morning at Mr Denning’s studio. That is, it’s his house but he has a room there specially adapted as a dark room where he can develop his photographs. I have a key, as on occasion I have to work there when he is out. We had a lot on this week and I needed to make an early start, so I was there by eight o’clock. And so it was me who discovered the burglary.’

  ‘Burglary?’ George echoed.

  Sir William leaned forward. ‘Was Mr Denning not at home?’

  Pennyman seemed to go pale at this. ‘You mean, you don’t know?’ he said. ‘I thought, when this gentleman mentioned murder, I just thought …’ He pulled out his hanky again. ‘Oh my goodness,’ he said into it, his voice muffled. Slowly he lowered the handkerchief. ‘Mr Denning was killed last night. Not three streets away from here.’

  There was a shocked silence for several moments. ‘Murdered?!’ Eddie whispered.

  ‘Run down it seems by a carriage. The police said they thought it must be deliberate from the position of the body on the pavement. An accident, and surely the carriage would have stopped.’

  ‘And his house – his studio – was last night broken into,’ Sir William said thoughtfully.

  Pennyman nodded. ‘It was a mess. Photographs removed from their files and strewn about the place. Some were taken, but most were not. I did wonder …’ He reached down for the briefcase at his feet.

  ‘Yes?’ Sir William prompted.

  ‘I did wonder if the thieves could be after these.’ He took out a large brown envelope and held it out to Sir William. ‘Mr Denning had his camera with him. It was under his body, and miraculously was not badly damaged. It holds a magazine of dry process plates, a dozen in all. He had saved several plates of course for the evening, but the photographs I know he took for you in the afternoon were on the earlier plates, and ready to be developed.’

  ‘And you have developed them?’ Sir William asked. He reached out and took the proffered envelope.

  Pennyman nodded.

  ‘What do they show?’ George asked.

  Pennyman shrugged and blinked. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘They show … nothing.’

  Sir William frowned and pulled several photographs from inside the envelope.

  ‘You mean they’re blank?’ George asked. ‘The plates were not exposed properly?’

  Pennyman shook his head. ‘They show an empty box. Except for the last one, look.’ He reached across and pulled out the last of the photographs.

  ‘Here – give us a look,’ Eddie said, pushing past George and leaning over the desk to see.

  The photograph that Pennyman had selected was a fog of darkness. There was a shape barely visible, square and box-like with what looked like wooden prongs jutting forward from it.

  ‘There was insufficient light for a good photograph,’ Pennyman explained. ‘It looks like it was taken outside, at night. Perhaps by accident. The shutter of the camera is automatic, it exposes the plate for just a fraction of a second. Not like the old days with wet process where you needed to hold the shutter open …’

  ‘I think it’s a carriage,’ George said suddenly. He pointed to the dark, square shape. ‘This is the front of the carriage, and here are the shafts for the horses,’ he went on indicating the wooden prongs.

  ‘Maybe it’s the carriage that ran him down,’ Eddie exclaimed with excitement. ‘A picture of his own murderer taken in his dying moments.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir William, ‘well, if there were any horses I might agree.’

  ‘Runaway carriage,’ Eddie said eagerly. ‘Rolling downhill with no one to stop it. Rolled right over him – wallop!’ He clapped his hands together by way of demonstration. ‘Didn’t stand an earthly. No?’

  ‘There were …’ Pennyman swallowed. ‘Hoof prints.’ He took the photograph from Sir William and stared at it. ‘No coachman, either. It’s a mystery, I’m afraid. But I assume these other pictures were taken for you in the afternoon, Sir William. I thought they might be important. Though as you can see …’ He let the comment hang in the air as Sir William spread the photographs out on the blotter.

  ‘How very extraordinary,’ Sir William said. He looked pale.

  There were five photographs in all, and each and every one showed the same box. Eddie recognised it at once as the casket the mummy had rested in at the previous night’s ceremony. The flash the photographer had used reflected as a flare off the silver lining of the sarcophagus. The sand strewn across the bottom of the casket looked more like salt as it caught the bright light. Each photograph was taken from a different angle, some closer and some further away. One showed just the top end of the sarcophagus, where the mummy’s head had rested.

  George picked up one of the photographs. ‘Seems normal enough.’

  ‘Bit boring,’ Eddie said. ‘I mean, why did you take pictures of an empty box?’

  George was nodding. ‘I’m inclined to agree, sir. I thought you had photographed the mummified remains, not just the sarcophagus.’

  Sir William took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Photographing the empty sarcophagus would indeed be something of a wasted effort,’ he said. ‘Which is why I had Mr Denning photograph the mummy. We did not take it out of the sarcophagus. The mummy was there, in the casket, when these photographs were taken.’

  ‘So where’s it gone then?’ Eddie said. ‘Where’s the mummy? Why doesn’t it show up in the pictures?’

  ‘That is precisely the question,’ Sir William said, replacing his glasses, ‘that is troubling me.’

  CHAPTER 4

  It was not yet light when Sir William arrived for work the next morning. The remnants of the previous night’s fog still swirled and drifted. Making his way briskly along the corridor that led to his office, Sir William’s mind was on the events of the previous days. He had given George the task of examining the photographs of th
e sarcophagus to see if there was some way they could have been tampered with, but he suspected the truth was not so simple or mundane.

  Head down, deep in thought, he did not see that the door to his office was ajar until he had the key ready. Warily, Sir William pushed the door gently open. A tall figure was standing at the window close to the desk. A tall, slim man, silhouetted against the first grey of the morning.

  ‘It will be light soon,’ the man said as he turned. His face was a dark shadow, but Sir William had recognised the cultured voice.

  ‘Indeed it will, your grace.’ He made his way to his desk and gestured for Lord Ruthven to be seated the other side. ‘Tell me, did I neglect to lock my door last night?’

  ‘I have been given carte blanche to go where I wish in the Museum. But please forgive the intrusion, Sir William. I was not sure how long you would be. I have another appointment soon, so allow me to come quickly to the point.’

  ‘Please do.’ Sir William clasped his hands together over his waistcoat and leaned back in his chair, staring intently at his uninvited guest.

  Lord Ruthven was past middle age, but not yet old. He might have been in his fifties or even his early sixties. His eyes were an alert blue and his hair was steel grey. His moustache, by contrast, was almost white. The man’s prominent cheekbones and slightly hooked nose gave him an aristocratic bearing and he exuded self-confidence. If anyone else had broken into Sir William’s office he would have taken them to task for it. But Lord Ruthven deserved respect. Not just for who he was, but for what he was. The Department of Unclassified Artefacts answered not to the trustees of the British Museum, but to an oversight committee appointed from its own ranks by the Royal Society. Lord Ruthven was a prominent member of that committee.

  ‘This unfortunate business the other night,’ Lord Ruthven said.

  ‘The walking mummy?’ Sir William kept his tone matter-of-fact and calm.

  ‘Walking prankster, more like. But be that as it may, the Committee feels it is important to be cautious.’

  ‘In what respect?’ Sir William smiled. ‘All Egyptian caskets to be kept locked shut henceforth perhaps?’

  Lord Ruthven’s eyes glinted sharply as he glanced towards the window. ‘This is hardly a matter for levity.’

  ‘My apologies. But my question stands – in what respect should we be cautious?’

  ‘In respect of your department, sir,’ Lord Ruthven said sternly. ‘The press are all over this incident, as you can well imagine. We cannot afford for it to become known where the mummy originated. Is that plain enough for you?’

  ‘We are in a museum full of mummies and relics,’ Sir William pointed out. ‘Why would the press, or anyone else for that matter, take it upon themselves to wonder about the exact provenance of the long-dead gentleman in question?’

  ‘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 a
nd 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.