The revenant express, p.21
The Revenant Express, page 21
The room itself was tiled in the same white and brown porcelain as the corridor, and the accoutrements of the surgeon’s art were everywhere to see—untidily scattered upon work surfaces, trolleys and shelves.
A gaunt surgeon was standing beside the slab. He was tall and thin, with a balding pate and long, bony fingers. He was dressed in a bloodied leather smock. He peered at Newbury from beneath heavy, hooded lids.
“Doctor Breal,” said Bainbridge, from over Newbury’s shoulder. “This is Sir Maurice Newbury. I’d like for you to explain to him precisely what you’ve just explained to me.”
Breal nodded curtly, inhaled so that his nose emitted an alarming whistle, and then spoke. “Contrary to initial appearances, this man was not shot.”
“Then what was responsible for the hole in his chest?” said Newbury.
“This,” said Breal, taking a kidney shaped dish from the nearest trolley and holding it out to Newbury.
Inside was a small metallic object, about the size of Newbury’s thumbnail. It resembled nothing so much as a small insect, with a series of fragile-looking legs extending from a brass carapace. It was presently on its back.
“I found it wedged in one of his ribs,” said Breal.
“May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Newbury upturned the dish and allowed the little device to tumble out into his palm. He held it up to the light. “It’s a scarab,” he said. “With eight legs.”
“Quite,” said Bainbridge.
“And if you’ll note the rather vicious mandibles...” said Breal.
Newbury used the tip of his finger to turn the scarab over. “It appears as if they’re designed to rotate,” he said.
“Indeed,” said Breal. “I believe the device used them to burrow into the victim’s chest, piercing his heart and causing a slow and rather agonising death. It’s quite ingenious.”
Newbury returned the scarab to the dish, and glanced at Bainbridge. “I suppose that explains the exit wounds you noted on the other victims. If similar automata killed them, the devices will have exited the victims to avoid detection. They won’t have been concerned with trajectory.”
Bainbridge nodded. “That was my thinking, too. And it also explains the lack of a third party. They were targeted assassinations. We even have the delivery method.”
“The plaster scarabs,” said Newbury. “The small cavity in the bases. The automata must have been sealed inside, and dug themselves out when activated or triggered. A seemingly innocuous object suddenly becomes the tool of an ingenious assassination.”
“So what are we dealing with?” said Bainbridge. “What’s the significance of the scarabs? Did you find anything?”
“I fear not. I can find no mention of an eight-legged scarab in any of my books or files. I’ll pay a visit to Aldous this afternoon, see if he can shed any light.”
“Very well,” said Bainbridge. “And I’ll keep digging, see if I can’t turn up a more definite connection between the victims. There has to be a reason they’re all being targeted.” He shook his head. “It’s a rum business, Newbury. You think it’s one of your lot?”
“My lot?”
“Some godforsaken cult, or some such. You know what I mean.”
Newbury grinned. “It remains a distinct possibility.”
“And what of Miss Hobbes? Where is she? I presume you’ll be engaging her in all of this, too?”
“In time. She has some other business to attend to first.”
Bainbridge sighed. “She’s turning out to be as darn mysterious as you are, Newbury. I tell you, you’re a bad influence on that girl.”
Newbury laughed. “I rather think you underestimate Miss Hobbes.”
Bainbridge shook his head, and then waved in the direction of the door. “Well, go on then. Go and see what Mr. Renwick can dig up. I’ll call on you later at home.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Newbury, with a grin.
Aldous Renwick was perhaps the most peculiar man that Newbury had the fortune to call a friend. Wild in appearance, with chaotic wisps of stark white hair, nicotine stained fingers and a grizzled, unshaven aspect, his most startling feature was his left eye, or rather, the device that had replaced it—a protruding mechanical lens that had, he claimed, been wired directly into his brain, replacing the original organ. It was a disconcerting object, shifting in its ball socket as if independent of both Renwick and his other, remaining eye; black and glassy save for a pinprick of orange light in its strange, fathomless depths. Newbury believed the device—or at least the surgical work that had been carried out on Renwick’s brain during its fitting—to be accountable for the man’s somewhat unconventional demeanour.
He was peering at Newbury now, over the top of a jar of the strange, pink brew he drank instead of more traditional beverages. They were sitting in the cluttered back room behind his bookshop, surrounded by the paraphernalia of a lifetime studying the esoteric and occult. “An eight-legged scarab, you say?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Newbury took the plaster beetle from his pocket and passed it over. He watched Renwick appraise it for a moment, turning it over in the palm of his hand. His mechanical eye whirred. He raised his hand to his nose, and sniffed. “At first I wondered if it was a mistake—a crude error perpetrated by someone trying to approximate the real thing, but then I saw what came out of it, and realised the error was intentional.” Newbury had outlined their findings at the morgue upon his arrival at the shop. Renwick had immediately placed the closed sign in the shop window, locked the door, and ushered him through to his lair.
Renwick placed the scarab on his workbench and crossed to one of the bookcases that seemed to line every inch of the wall space in the room. He searched the serried spines, his fingers dancing over the cracked leather bindings. He found what he was looking for and pulled a book down, blew a cloud of dust from the pages, and returned to where he’d been standing beside his workbench. He opened the book and began leafing through.
Newbury waited patiently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’d seen this before. Renwick was checking his facts before reciting his conclusions to Newbury.
After a couple of minutes, Renwick looked up from the old tome and peered over at him quizzically, as if he’d forgotten Newbury was there. “Menamhotep,” he said. He held the book out, tapping the left-hand page. Newbury took it.
“Menamhotep?” He glanced at the image in the book. It was an engraving of a listing stone pillar, high on a windswept moor. The carving had been eroded through centuries of exposure, but the central image was still largely visible—an eight-legged scarab beetle, surrounded by other, barely visible runes and sigils.
“A lesser known goddess from early-Dynastic Egypt,” said Renwick. “She typically took the form of an eight-legged scarab or a spider-headed woman, and was the overseer of fate, responsible for weaving the vast web of causality. No action went unrecorded by Menamhotep, who alone understood the connection between all living things. She had the power to bring lovers together, or steer them apart; to start or end wars; to ensure the long reign of a Pharaoh, or end it suddenly in bloodshed. From the centre of her web in the heavens she witnessed all things, past and future.”
“But this engraving shows an English landscape.”
“Ah, that’s where it gets interesting,” said Renwick. “See, Menamhotep was largely forgotten during the earliest days of the Old Kingdom. No idols have ever been found—just fragmentary records, a few passing references in hieroglyphic reliefs. Her cults faded, and she went largely unmentioned for nearly two thousand years. But then the Romans settled in Egypt, and for the briefest of moments—just a few months—her cult was revived, before once again passing into obscurity.” Renwick sipped at his strange concoction, and gave a satisfied sigh. “By then, the Romans had settled in Britain, however, and from that briefest window of revival, brought the cult to our shores.”
“So the cult flourished here while it died off back in Egypt?”
Renwick nodded. “For a while. It was taken up by the locals, who identified Menamhotep with an ancient pagan spider spirit of the woods. Over time, she became Anglicised. Worship continued into the Saxon period, but was abolished with the establishment of Christianity. By the year 900 she was all but forgotten, save for a handful of old monuments on Dartmoor.”
Newbury tapped his finger against his lips, thoughtful. “Yet someone doesn’t want to let her sleep.” He folded the book shut and placed it on a wavering stack beside his chair, and then got to his feet. “Thank you, Aldous. You’ve proved as invaluable as ever.”
Renwick smiled and inclined his head. “Glad to be of service.” He picked up the plaster scarab. “May I?”
Newbury grinned. “Just don’t tell Charles,” he said, reaching for the door handle.
“We’ve established a clear connection between the victims.” Bainbridge stalked into Newbury’s drawing room, the bowl of his pipe in his hand as he stabbed pointedly in Newbury’s direction with the mouthpiece. Rivulets of rainwater were still running down the back of his overcoat, dripping all over the floorboards. “We need to hurry.”
“Charles, you’re wet. Think of the books.”
Bainbridge stopped before the fire and turned on the spot. He regarded Newbury through a wreath of smoke. “Listen, are you coming or not? I have a police carriage waiting outside.”
“Coming where?” Newbury leaned back into the soft embrace of his sofa. His head was throbbing, and he was beginning to feel a little unsettled. The tainted cigarettes in the wooden box on the side table were calling to him, but the thought of Bainbridge’s bombastic objection was enough to stay his hand. He took a swig from his brandy instead.
“To the British Museum. We need to find a man called Oleander Crow.”
Newbury drained his glass. “Is this about Menamhotep?”
“Menamo-who?”
“The eight-legged scarabs. They’re a reference to an Ancient Egyptian goddess called Menamhotep. An old cult that came to Britain with the Romans.”
“Well that would certainly make sense,” said Bainbridge. “It seems all the victims were part of an expedition to Egypt last year. They found something in the desert—a particularly noteworthy tomb, mummy and treasure and all that—but apparently there was an antechamber where the walls were covered in ancient hieroglyphs, reciting some previously unknown legends. They took photographs, and they’ve been working together to study the texts since their return. They were planning to publish shortly, having recently completed the translation work.” Bainbridge exhaled a ruffle of smoke from his nostrils. “Crow was the expedition leader, and the only survivor of the four. At this moment he’s either our chief suspect, or the next intended victim.”
“I’ve known Crow for years. He’s a good man. I can’t believe for a minute that he’d set out to harm his colleagues,” said Newbury.
“Then we’d best hope we can get to him before they do—whoever they are.”
“Alright.” Newbury pulled himself up out of the pit of the sofa, stretching his weary limbs. “I’ll get my coat and meet you at the cab in a moment.”
The British Museum was shrouded in a veil of mist and rain as the police carriage trundled over the flagstones and pulled to a halt outside the main entrance. It was approaching early evening, and the usual stream of visitors had evidently been dissuaded by the inclement weather—the grounds appeared deserted.
They clambered out of the carriage and, with heads dipped against the rain, sprinted for the cover of the main lobby.
“His office is in the basement, close to mine,” said Newbury. He led the way across the marble concourse to the private stairwell that disappeared down into the gloomy belly of the museum. He hadn’t visited his office here for some weeks, and knew that he’d have an enormous pile of paperwork to contend with when he did. Veronica, too, had been otherwise engaged with her sister over at Malbury Cross, leaving the running of the office to Miss Coulthard. He assured himself she’d have matters in hand, and resolved not to disturb her. At least, not if he could avoid it.
The passages beneath the museum were a warren, linking offices, study rooms and storage areas, as brimming with treasure as any buried tomb in the Saharan sands. They hurried along the tiled corridors, leaving a trail of dirty rainwater behind them.
“Here,” said Newbury, indicating a door. Crow’s name was printed in black on a small brass plate affixed to the door. Through the glass pane, he could see that a gas lamp was burning inside. He rapped on the door, and then tried the handle.
“Oleander?”
He stepped in, and Bainbridge bustled in behind him. The room as a small antechamber to Crow’s main office, which he’d converted into a reading room, lined with books and scrolls, and with a small table and two chairs. Another door led into the adjoining office, where Crow was sitting hunched over his desk.
“Oleander?” repeated Newbury.
Crow looked up, peered myopically over the top of his spectacles, and then grinned. “Sir Maurice! Haven’t seen you around these parts recently, what?”
Newbury crossed into the other room and shook Crow by the hand. He was a short man in his fifties, who’d retained a full head of dark hair that was nevertheless shot through with a startling streak of white, just above the left temple. His skin was tanned and lined, and his grip was firm. He was missing two front teeth, which he delighted in telling everyone had been lost during a fight with a Bedouin during one of his fateful expeditions. No one knew whether it was true, but Newbury had a sense that the truth more than lived up to Crow’s telling of it; Crow was a man who’d seen things in his lifetime that most men could only begin to imagine.
“Oleander, this is Sir Charles Bainbridge, of Scotland Yard. We need to talk to you as a matter of urgency.”
Crow sighed, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. “I presume with regard to the recent deaths of two of my colleagues?”
“Three of your colleagues,” corrected Bainbridge.
Crow looked suddenly stricken. “Oh, no, not Matthias?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Newbury. “He was found this morning. He died in the same way as the others.”
“Which was?”
“He was assassinated by a tiny automaton of an eight-legged scarab, hidden inside a plaster decoration.”
“An eight-legged scarab…” Crow frowned. He reached down and opened a drawer in his desk, and then took out a small plaster scarab, which he placed on the desk before him. It was identical to the one taken from bright’s house that morning. Bainbridge glanced at Newbury.
“Where did you get that, Dr. Crow?” said Bainbridge.
“It arrived in the post this morning. There was no note. I assumed it was a little joke from Matthias—it relates to the work we’ve been doing, you see…”
“Regarding Menamhotep?” said Newbury.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Crow. “We’ve been translating a mythic cycle that we discovered in a tomb last year, during our most recent expedition. It’s known as ‘The Word of Menamhotep’, and it’s a creation myth—along with a series of accompanying rituals and incantations—referring back to pre-Dynastic Egypt, and a pantheon of gods that are mostly now forgotten, or later became transmuted into some of the more recognisable deities that you tend to hear about.” He waved his hand. “As far as we’re aware, the story hasn’t been told for nearly four thousand years. It’s a fascinating insight. The writings purport to be the recorded words of Menamhotep herself. Menamhotep was a minor deity, with little more than a cult following, really, so to find a text like this after all this time…”
“Where is the translation now?” said Newbury.
“Well, it’s all here, collated in this folder.” Crow indicated a large manilla file. “It’s painstaking work. We’ve had to do it all from hand, from photographs. I’m in the final stages of collation.”
“Bring it with you,” said Newbury, getting to his feet. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Crow, looking flustered. “I have work to do. Important work.”
“Dr. Crow. Your life is at risk,” said Bainbridge. “Consider this: whoever is responsible for the deaths of your colleagues knows where you work. And they’ve sent you that,” Bainbridge pointed at the plaster scarab, “with the clear intention to cause you harm.”
“But it’s just a plaster decoration, as you said.” Crow reached for the scarab and picked it up. As he lifted it, a plume of white dust billowed from the base. Puzzled, Crow turned it over to reveal a small cavity in the base. “What?”
“Up, now!” bellowed Bainbridge, grabbing Crow by the sleeve and hauling him roughly to his feet. Newbury reached over and grabbed the file, tucking it inside his coat. “We’re leaving.”
Crow flinched, and at first Newbury thought he was responding to Bainbridge’s rather forceful grip on his arm, but then he noticed that the man was swatting at something on the back of his hand. “Charles! It’s on him!”
Bainbridge twisted, releasing Crow, who stared at Newbury for a moment, clearly terrified, before holding up his right hand. There was a small, bloody hole in the flesh, and Newbury could see something moving beneath the skin. “What…what…?” he mumbled, confused and pained. He scratched at the wound, trying to prise the scarab out with his fingers.
“Hold him down, Charles.” Newbury searched in his pocket for penknife. “I’m sorry, Oleander. This is going to hurt, but there’s really no other option. We have to work quickly.”
As Bainbridge grappled with Crow, pinning his hand to the table, Newbury moved in, the knife grasped firmly in his fist.
“No, no, no…what are you–” Crow broke off into a shrill scream as Newbury dug the tip of his penknife into the back of the man’s hand. Newbury could see the burrowing scarab forcing its way through the man’s flesh, digging through muscle as it moved towards the wrist. If it got into his arm, Crow’s life was forfeit—there was no way they’d be able to get it out of him before it had finished its work and punctured his heart.
