Butterflies (The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal) (3 page)

‘I shall look forward to it.’

***

The police sergeant was more welcoming than the butterfly collector. Many provincial policemen swell with pride at being interviewed by a real London journalist, and the greatest difficulty is to stop them talking. This one was much of that type, except that he evidently felt that the whole butterfly business was an embarrassing nuisance.

‘It’s peculiar, yes,’ he said. ‘Very peculiar. But peculiar ain’t my business. The Chief Constable’s brought a fellow down here to look into it, a Mr Feximal, I expect you know the name. Peculiar is
his
business. My business is law-breaking, and I’ve quite enough of that to be getting on with.’

I made noises of sympathy and he launched into a recital of his woes. I had covered many a crime in London and it seemed to me he had very little to complain about: a few burglaries, the usual cases of drunkenness and wife-beating, a nasty piece of vandalism in the Cathedral, involving the desecration of an ancient tomb. He cast no light on the butterfly killings, or much else, but his story of the tomb caught my attention and I considered it as I nodded along to his monologue.

I doubted Simon would be finished with whatever he was doing in the morgue yet. The Cathedral was no great distance. It would be worth a glance, and if the vandalism was as dramatic as the sergeant claimed, it might make either excellent local colour or even a short article of its own. I was paid by the word; these things count.

I headed off to Winchester Cathedral, and soon found myself in its chilly stone interior. It is a building of extraordinary beauty, the soaring pillars and arched roof like a petrified forest above me, and I paced through it in some awe, feet ringing on the flagstoned floor.

I asked a verger for what I sought. His face showed reluctance, but I dropped the sergeant’s name into his ear and a shilling into his hand, and he took me to a tomb, concealed from the public by a temporary curtain.

‘Here it is, sir,’ he said. ‘The tomb of Peter des Roches. Appalling.’

The medieval effigy of a reclining man carved in stone had doubtless been beautiful once, but time, or perhaps the touches of the faithful, had worn away the statue’s features until he had the appearance of a leper, pitted and noseless. Underneath the effigy, the side of the tomb was cracked and splintered, with a jagged-edged hole exposing its black interior. I ducked down to look at it, and recoiled.

It was
cold
. I could feel the icy air stealing out from the dark interior. And it was dark inside, too, not just an absence of light but darkness as a force, a hungry, waiting thing that would devour all attempts to see in. I looked at the broken edges of stone, and perhaps it was merely the shadows, but it looked to me more than that. As though the darkness was staining the stone. Slowly spreading outward, into the light.

The hole in the tomb was sufficiently large to admit a man’s hand. I should not have put my hand in there at any price.

I stood, wanting to be away. ‘What on earth happened?’

‘Someone broke into it,’ the verger said with a despairing shrug. ‘With a crowbar. Who knows why. Maybe they thought to find treasure, but...’

‘In a tomb this old?’

‘It has not been opened before to my knowledge, sir. But why would a bishop’s tomb contain treasure?’

‘Who was this gentleman?’ I asked.

‘Peter des Roches, sir. Bishop of Winchester in the reigns of King John and Henry III. He was a good man, by all accounts.’ The verger named a few of the bishop’s achievements, founding this and supporting that, then, seeing he was losing my attention, went on, ‘And there’s a fine piece of local folklore too, sir, a charming tale, if you’d care to hear it?’ He didn’t wait for my assent. ‘The story goes that one day, Peter was out hunting in the forest instead of caring for the souls of his parish, when he met – who do you think?’

He seemed to expect an answer. ‘King John?’

‘King Arthur. Of the knights of the Round Table, sir.’

‘Really.’ I wondered how long this fairy tale was going to take.

‘It’s said that King Arthur invited him to dinner in a great hall under a hill. The two ate a fine meal together, with many a glass and many a tale to make the evening a success. And then, as they parted Peter bemoaned that nobody would ever believe who he had met that day, and he asked the king for a token to prove that it had truly happened. So King Arthur told him to close his fist and open it again, and when he did so, a butterfly flew from his palm.’

‘A – ’

‘A butterfly, sir. Ever after, whenever Bishop Peter opened his fist, the miracle was repeated. People came from far and wide to be blessed by him. He became known as the butterfly bishop, so the tale goes.’ The verger paused, evidently struck by his own story. ‘And that’s a funny thing, sir, now I think. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news – ’

I didn’t wait for him to tell me. I was already hurrying out of the great, shadowy hall, walking as fast as respect for the holy surroundings allowed, and the second I passed out of its doors, I broke into a run.

***

Simon and I stood together, staring at the broken tomb. I had met him on the way out of the morgue, which was fortunate, else I should have doubtless forced my way in to get him, given the urgency I had felt. Now, standing in front of a centuries-old relic, I wondered if I had just made something of a fool of myself.

Simon was crouched down, one hand on the tomb to balance himself, the other hovering over that dark opening.

‘What could it mean?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘That hole is big enough to reach in. What might someone have taken from in there?’

‘I don’t know.’ Simon’s face was intent. He murmured something under his breath, and then, quite suddenly, he pushed the tips of his fingers into that awful, waiting hole. The colour drained from his face so fast I thought he would faint. He snatched his hand back, and I felt pure relief to see it emerge intact.

‘What is it? What’s in there?’

‘Cold.’ He swayed slightly, and his knuckles whitened where he gripped the sepulchre’s stone.

‘Are you all right?’

Simon’s mouth moved slightly. It was very dark now, the dim lamps casting long shadows. His deep-set eyes were black pits, and his skin looked not just pale but oddly colourless.

‘Simon?’

I put my hand on his arm, and felt the violent shudder that ran through him.

‘Simon!’

His hand shot out, grabbed my coat, pulled me down. I landed hard on my knee on the cold flagstones. He grasped the back of my head, forcing my face close to his, and I had a momentary flash of alarm that he might mean to kiss me, and in a cathedral, of all places – but he did not. He pushed his face against the side of my head, forcing words into my ear, so close I felt his lips move on my skin, still barely audible. His breath was very, very cold.

‘Help – me. Get me – out.’

It was only a few hundred yards, thank God, and though I had not Simon’s strength, I was sturdy enough. I dragged him along, his arm over my shoulders, his feet stumbling. I suppose people thought he was drunk.

I had to push him up the stairs, past the landlady’s disapproving gaze, and into my room, where he half fell onto the bed and then, in a sudden spasm of activity, began tearing at his shirt.

‘Simon?’ I said helplessly.

‘Get this off!’

He was dragging at his coat, like to tear it. I joined him – this was not how I had imagined undressing him – and unfastened his shirt, and recoiled at what I saw. The writing on his skin was frantic, far worse than before, huge jagged letters, the ink stabbing itself up and down over his chest. His face was grey.

‘Mirror,’ he rasped.

I grabbed the looking-glass from the wall, and brought it over, twisting round so that I could see his reflection too.

The last time, the mirror writing had been clear, if obscene, English. This time, it was utterly incoherent. The letters had the rectangular form of those one sees in illuminated medieval manuscripts, utterly indecipherable.

‘I can’t read it,’ I said.

‘Nor can I.’ Sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘Trying to talk. Too old. I can’t. I can’t understand. Stop it!’

I was close to panic now. ‘Simon? What can I do?’

Simon was pushing and scraping at his chest with his nails, leaving scratched trails that beaded red, as though he were trying to rip off his own skin. It had no effect on the scrawl which became, if anything wilder.

‘Stop it!’ I dropped the glass and grabbed his hands. He pulled back, hard, far stronger than me, but I didn’t let go, and he jerked me forward into his lap, and whether it was him or me I could not to this day say, but we were kissing then, his lips and teeth hard and desperate on mine. He shoved me backward, and I fell onto the bed with his muscular bulk pinning me down, and his hands pinioning mine.

It was scarcely kissing now. He forced his tongue, thrusting, into my mouth, and I moaned my surrender around it. His hand moved, so that one held both my wrists while the other went to his waist, and shoved clothing aside. He shifted above me, still holding me down, and knelt over my face, and like that, without a word, he pushed his stiff cock into my bruised, wet mouth.

I almost choked. I almost came.

I did not know, I still do not understand, why it should be such a pleasure to have Simon manhandle me so. I do not lack self respect. No other man has ever used me ill and I should resent it extremely if any tried. But then, no other man has ever held on to me as though he were lost in darkness, as though my body were his last connection to the light.

I knew more later. God help me, I was to discover so much, and to learn the truth of Simon’s words, that some knowledge would have been better lost forever. But even then I think I understood that he was dying inside, and he found life in me.

So he fucked my mouth, hard and bruising, and I squirmed and moaned underneath him, unable to take even the slightest control and painfully aroused by his need, and when he came, hard and deep, in my throat and his grip on my wrists relaxed, I fought my hands free and unbuttoned myself frantically. He was still in my mouth, still hard, as I frigged myself no more than twice and spent with a cry of painful ecstasy muffled only by his prick.

Simon pulled away from me, breathing hard, and rolled away.

I was hanging half over the edge of the bed. I slid down to the floor with a thump.

‘Robert.’ Simon sounded exhausted. ‘I...’ He did not try to finish the sentence.

‘Are you alright? What happened in the cathedral?’

‘The story.’ He gestured at his chest. The writings had calmed now, still moving, but more like the gentle pace of a fountain pen than the insane skittering script of before. ‘The story was too old. It’s distorted. Decayed. I couldn’t read it, and it needs to be read. It was so angry, and it would not stop. It filled my mind, until... well, until you filled it instead. Robert, please, I had no intention of distressing you - ’

‘The only thing that will distress me at this moment is if you apologise. I should take that very ill indeed.’

‘I forced you.’ His voice was raw.

‘On the contrary. I should have insisted.’ That got his startled attention. I put a hand up, resting it on his thigh. ‘And I am delighted to have been of assistance.’

There was a pause, and then Simon began to laugh. He laughed like a man who was not used to the act, and who was not quite sure why he was doing it. I hauled myself back onto the bed, and leaned over to kiss him with my bruised lips, and he pulled me close and held me there. I ran a finger over the skin of his chest and felt nothing but coarse hair and warmth.

‘You are quite remarkable,’ he said. ‘So matter-of-fact. Does nothing dismay you?’

‘I was not matter-of-fact just now,’ I pointed out. ‘I enjoyed myself exceedingly. And while I may be dismayed on occasion, I have never seen the point of having vapours. Are you recovered now?’

‘Thanks to you.’ His arm tightened.

‘What’s in the tomb?’

‘So many questions, Robert.’ It was not a rebuke, but he clearly did not intend to give a full answer. ‘A grave has been violated. That must be set right.’

I asked the question that had been burning in my mind since the verger spoke. ‘Do you think that the folk tale is true? Butterflies from empty hands? King Arthur? Because, the thing is, Dr Merridew kept his hands flat. When he shook my hand, he did not close his own at all. And when he spoke he had his palms on his legs, open, pressed down, as if he was trying to keep them still. Could it be that he did not want to risk closing them in front of you? Is he creating the things?’

Simon sat up, and began to pull his clothing back to decency. I went to get my spare shirt front, since the one I wore had taken the brunt of my excitement. ‘I think it likely,’ he said. ‘Merridew was...wrong. I found the atmosphere peculiar. Did you sense something in there?’

‘Me?’

‘You have awareness, Robert. You felt something, I think.’

‘The butterfly deaths gave me the horrors, that was all. I imagined them somewhat vividly.’

‘You, who are so matter-of-fact.’ Simon did not smile, but his voice was warm.

‘But how can Merridew be doing it?’

‘I don’t know. But it seems clear that he took something from the tomb, and it has been missed, and it must be returned.’ Simon stood. ‘It is my experience that gifts are very dangerous things to steal.

***

We stood together at the doctor’s door, knocking relentlessly for some five minutes, before the man opened it himself. He looked flushed, and there was a butterfly on his shoulder. A Red Admiral, a creature that should have died well before this time of year, wings moving slowly back and forth, open and shut.

Merridew attempted to slam the door. Simon pushed back hard – very hard, considering the apparent frailty of the elderly man on its other side. In the end, it took our combined weights, shoulders to the door, to force it. Merridew stepped back with a gasp. We were inside.

There were butterflies in the hall, spread-winged in the hall, crawling on the ceiling, moving slowly underfoot. Some were those I recognised, Cabbage Whites and Painted Ladies. Others were the bizarre shapes and colours of the pinned specimens. All were alive.