Read The Magdalena Curse Online
Authors: F.G. Cottam
The Magdalena Curse (19 page)
‘The poem was by Rupert Brooke. Adam recited it in a tone a full octave lower than his regular speaking voice. Then there was his pronunciation. For want of a more accurate word, it sounded Edwardian.’
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She did not think there was a better word. She thought Emma Davies very astute. She thought Miss Hall and her grasp on matters must be weakening. ‘How did the rest of the class react?’
‘After a dozen lines, most of them zoned out. We’ve one very bright girl who stuck with the sense of it all the way through. The poem’s a dense affair, thematically, for a ten-year-old. I think she thought it impersonation.’
‘But you did not.’
‘No,’ Emma Davies said. ‘To me it did not seem like
impersonation at all. It was very unnerving, you see. To me, for the duration of the recitation, it seemed more like possession.’
impersonation at all. It was very unnerving, you see. To me, for the duration of the recitation, it seemed more like possession.’
Elizabeth still had her eyes closed. Now she opened them and looked across to where Adam sat. He was poring intently over his homework books, oblivious.
‘I know that the boy has been troubled in some way. I neither like nor peddle in gossip. I only mention it because I think you ought to know.’
‘Thank you,’ Elizabeth said. She replaced the receiver.
Later, after Adam had gone to bed, Sergeant Kilbride called and shared more with her about his conclusions regarding her violated home than she knew an officer of the law generally would do with a crime victim. After he had left, she built up the fire and opened a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and pondered on the absence from the house of its owner. Mark Hunter had been away for only one full night. This was to be the second. It seemed like more. Adam had been free of the nightmares for three nights. Again, it seemed like more, if only because his recovery had been so abrupt and had seemed so complete. But the poetry episode was a concern. She could not see where it fitted into the pattern of things. It seemed ominous, though. It was indicative of how fragile this respite from the nightmares was, how uncertain the prospects of his full recovery. She wondered at her own fitness to help him. Embroiled in magic from two sides, she was beginning to fear its dark contamination. She would be helplessly overwhelmed by something she did not remotely comprehend. And where would that leave the boy?
She went over to his desk and switched on Mark Hunter’s computer and accessed her email account. She had two that were unread. One was from the British Medical Association, to say that they had been asked to confirm her identity and credentials and contact details by someone working at the
British Library that morning. They had done so. The second was from the British Library and had been sent that afternoon. It was a cover note with a long document attachment. The cover note politely explained that she had not been sent a copy of Jerusalem Smith’s original transcript. Only a practised scholar would have the skills to decipher that. Instead they had sent her a version faithfully reproduced in modern spelling and idiom by a Professor Edwards of Trinity College in 1927. She did not open the document itself. She had neither the energy nor the inclination to begin to read it just then. She hadn’t the heart to face what she might discover there. This was because Edwards had been neither a professor of history nor law. His specialism, it was explained in the cover note, had been the occult.
British Library that morning. They had done so. The second was from the British Library and had been sent that afternoon. It was a cover note with a long document attachment. The cover note politely explained that she had not been sent a copy of Jerusalem Smith’s original transcript. Only a practised scholar would have the skills to decipher that. Instead they had sent her a version faithfully reproduced in modern spelling and idiom by a Professor Edwards of Trinity College in 1927. She did not open the document itself. She had neither the energy nor the inclination to begin to read it just then. She hadn’t the heart to face what she might discover there. This was because Edwards had been neither a professor of history nor law. His specialism, it was explained in the cover note, had been the occult.
Kilbride had said the unpleasantness at her cottage was not the work of a single individual. They could rule out the theory of the lone crank straight away. Tracks had been left on the turf around the cottage by two sets of boots. They were different sizes but, interestingly, shared an identical tread.
‘Do you know the significance of the shared boot type, Dr Bancroft?’ He had dropped his Dr Lizzie jocularity. Clearly, he thought her harassment serious.
‘No.’
‘It’s characteristic of paramilitry organisations. You know the kind of people. I’m talking about the more extreme animal liberationists and radical environmental groups.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘I’ve never so much as torn the wings off a fly, Tony. I recycle all my rubbish. I don’t work in the nuclear power industry. I don’t think I even have a patient who does.’
‘We need to meet again and have a proper talk about this,’ he had said.
Elizabeth heard a thump and looked to see if logs had
fallen in the fire. But the noise had come from upstairs. There was silence, the silence followed by laughter, keening, high and far too knowing for Adam’s waking innocence. It had begun again. It could mean only one thing. More precisely, there was one thing of significance it definitely meant. Miss Hall was dead. The protection her emissary had promised on behalf of his mistress had gone. The promise had been rashly made by its ailing guarantor, Elizabeth felt, getting to her feet. But perhaps Miss Hall had been desperate. The darkness of events seemed a deepening maw to her as she gathered her courage and ascended the stairs to do what she could for her tormented charge.
fallen in the fire. But the noise had come from upstairs. There was silence, the silence followed by laughter, keening, high and far too knowing for Adam’s waking innocence. It had begun again. It could mean only one thing. More precisely, there was one thing of significance it definitely meant. Miss Hall was dead. The protection her emissary had promised on behalf of his mistress had gone. The promise had been rashly made by its ailing guarantor, Elizabeth felt, getting to her feet. But perhaps Miss Hall had been desperate. The darkness of events seemed a deepening maw to her as she gathered her courage and ascended the stairs to do what she could for her tormented charge.
The door opened on to a vestibule, cold and narrow and high. From somewhere, there came the sound of a dripping tap or snow melt. Hunter did not think it could be the latter. It was as cold in Mrs Mallory’s mountain keep as the grave. And the snow was not melting this high on the mountain. He switched on his head torch. The walls within were the same rough concrete as without. Here and there the concrete was crumbling and rust stained and pocked. This place would stand for another thousand years, he thought. And that had been, he was sure, the intention when it was originally built. But it was corroding. There was seepage and damp and the quiet rust of reinforcing bars no longer invulnerable to the wet of summer thaws. How long had her keep occupied this solitary spot? Hunter’s guess was better than seventy years. He was no great student of architecture. But the Imperial eagle carved in deep relief in the lintel above the door had been too stubborn a clue to ignore.
At some point, he would have to seek and find the route to the cellar. Miss Hall had been most emphatic about that. But he would not venture there yet. He would gain his bearings and his nerve before subjecting himself to that necessary ordeal. He would explore the ground and upper floors. Glancing around, he was tempted to look for light. There were wall sconces here, pitch-tipped torches thrust into them and scorch marks behind on the dank concrete as proof of their fierce capacity to burn. He thought that they might burn still. The pitch was thickly daubed on them,
viscous in the cold. He could ignite them with the waterproof matches he had bought along with the rest of his equipment at Innsbruck. But he was cautious about providing any extravagance of light. The feeling of being stalked had not left Mark Hunter. He needed to see. He did not wish to advertise himself. He remembered the gnawed wrists of Major Rodriguez very vividly. He remembered the cold, grey-eyed beauty of Mrs Mallory and her chiselled bones, and the velvet urging of her voice as she compelled him irresistibly to approach her and greet her with a kiss.
viscous in the cold. He could ignite them with the waterproof matches he had bought along with the rest of his equipment at Innsbruck. But he was cautious about providing any extravagance of light. The feeling of being stalked had not left Mark Hunter. He needed to see. He did not wish to advertise himself. He remembered the gnawed wrists of Major Rodriguez very vividly. He remembered the cold, grey-eyed beauty of Mrs Mallory and her chiselled bones, and the velvet urging of her voice as she compelled him irresistibly to approach her and greet her with a kiss.
He pushed at the door to a room off to the left of the vestibule and it opened with a whoosh. It was bronzed and engraved and must have weighed upwards of half a ton, he thought. But it rested on balanced hinges and they were smoothly lubricated. The room was vast and less of a room, really, than a shrine. Its contents were of a piece with the Imperial eagle above the entrance. Blood banners topped with gilt swastikas were heaped, leaning in a corner. Their fabric was dusty with time. But their colours were richly embroidered, deeply redolent of the hatred and pomp of the marches in which they had been paraded.
There was a large painting of the Führer, attired as a medieval knight, bareheaded in silver armour in the saddle of a piebald warhorse. There was another, formal painted portrait of the Nazi high command in their uniforms and leather coats at a conference table in the open air in a forest clearing. They were being served refreshments on silver trays in the picture by blond children in folk costume. The painter had been technically skilled. There was sunlight in the forest. It played, making haloes of their fine and wavy yellow hair. There was the still clutter of weaponry about the room. There was a mounted machine gun and a row of carbines and a case of black, gleaming machine pistols. Hunter could smell the thin oil used to clean and service these weapons.
Mrs Mallory had a retinue of course. That’s what Miss Hall had called it at Magdalena. She had a retinue. He had seen one of them at the airport and again down among the trees outside his hotel. He had left his faint stink in Hunter’s hotel room. He wondered, were any of them here, lurking in the shadows? It seemed more likely than not. Though Miss Hall had insisted he would find this place deserted.
Mrs Mallory had a retinue of course. That’s what Miss Hall had called it at Magdalena. She had a retinue. He had seen one of them at the airport and again down among the trees outside his hotel. He had left his faint stink in Hunter’s hotel room. He wondered, were any of them here, lurking in the shadows? It seemed more likely than not. Though Miss Hall had insisted he would find this place deserted.
In the centre of the room was a large wooden table bearing a film projector. At slightly above head height, about ten feet beyond the camera’s lens, a long thin metal drum, or more accurately tube, was suspended from the ceiling by chains. It was painted green. And Hunter knew it contained the canvas screen he would unroll should he elect to switch the camera on and watch the film sitting loaded on to its large spool. Actually, there was no decision, just as there was no decision to make about his eventual visit to the cellar. But he would not watch the film yet.
Over against the far corner, on top of a bookcase, were three objects he could not make out. They were domestic items, he thought, short, pale cylinders with some kind of decoration. He walked over to examine them. He held out a hand and then his fingers recoiled. They were the shades of standard lamps. They were mounted on short wooden stands. Their bulbs were dusty. Their decoration was tattoos and they were made of human skin. Next to them, weeping out of waxed paper, was a pile of bars of soap. They had become unstable over time of course. Even in the cold of Mrs Mallory’s keep, products rendered from human fat would decay. The leakage from the soap was a dark, tarnished yellow and it glimmered wetly in the light of Hunter’s head torch.
The bookcase on top of which these souvenirs sat was filled with gilt-tooled leather volumes. It was some sort of set, like encyclopaedias. But the titles on their spines were
not etched in German. They were described in some runic script alien to him. There was an ornamental key locking the glass doors of the case. He twisted this, opened the doors and pulled a volume free. The pages were hand-cut but the book was not ancient. He glanced through it. There were trial scenes and scenes of torture depicted in vivid woodcuts. There were the strange, sly creatures which had shifted on the tapestries in the canvas cathedral at Magdalena. In the woodcuts, this lupine breed played the prosecutors and the torturers. Their victims were all people. The last scene he looked at was a moonlit panorama of mass burning and dismemberment. He closed and replaced the book. Perhaps now was the time for a movie after all.
not etched in German. They were described in some runic script alien to him. There was an ornamental key locking the glass doors of the case. He twisted this, opened the doors and pulled a volume free. The pages were hand-cut but the book was not ancient. He glanced through it. There were trial scenes and scenes of torture depicted in vivid woodcuts. There were the strange, sly creatures which had shifted on the tapestries in the canvas cathedral at Magdalena. In the woodcuts, this lupine breed played the prosecutors and the torturers. Their victims were all people. The last scene he looked at was a moonlit panorama of mass burning and dismemberment. He closed and replaced the book. Perhaps now was the time for a movie after all.
He assumed the projector was battery powered. He also assumed cold had kept the battery from corroding and leaking and spilling over the rest of the mechanism over time. But what had prevented the film in the spool from perishing? Was that the cold as well? This was a spellbound place. That was the truth of it. It assailed and insulted Mark Hunter’s usual logic. But he felt the truth of it in every prickling pore of his body and each corner of his mind. He pulled down the screen and switched on the machine, extinguishing his head torch to watch the film as every cinema purist should, in the blackest of theatres.
The film flickered into life depicting the monochrome warmth of a summer city in Germany pictured long ago. The light suggested that the sun was shining strongly from somewhere near its zenith in the sky. The short shadows cast by trees and street railings and café chairs were very sharply etched. The cobbles were glazed with brightness. But this was not the Berlin of a homesick Rupert Brooke. It was not that far back in time. A war had been fought and lost since then. This was a summer that wore the physical trappings of that defeat and its cruel and solemn consequence. Figures
in uniform sat at café tables. Most of the uniforms were black. When the camera panned, swastikas were draped heavily from the ornate frontage of some civic building. Hunter thought that it could have been Hamburg or Cologne he was looking at. There were no architectural landmarks famous enough for him to know for sure. He was not watching a travelogue. The footage was more intimate and less formally structured. But he had the suspicion that the city was Berlin. Mrs Mallory had had a fondness for Berlin, even an affinity with the place.
in uniform sat at café tables. Most of the uniforms were black. When the camera panned, swastikas were draped heavily from the ornate frontage of some civic building. Hunter thought that it could have been Hamburg or Cologne he was looking at. There were no architectural landmarks famous enough for him to know for sure. He was not watching a travelogue. The footage was more intimate and less formally structured. But he had the suspicion that the city was Berlin. Mrs Mallory had had a fondness for Berlin, even an affinity with the place.
She sat at a café table and smiled in close-up from under the shade of a wide-brimmed hat. She wore sunglasses but the seductive mouth and sharply sculpted facial bones were unmistakeable. There was a small coffee cup on a saucer in front of her and a slice of coffee or chocolate cake she had left untouched. He did not think she had ever been a woman with a sweet tooth. Perhaps the cake had been ordered for her in jest. A cigarette was balanced on the edge of the ashtray next to her coffee cup. Smoke rose thinly from it and disappeared in the brilliant light above her head. She wore a rope of pearls around her bare throat and a satin shirt tailored with collar and cuffs like a man’s. She wore a man’s wristwatch on a black leather strap. She looked at once exotic and self-possessed. She did not wilt in the heat and the brightness of the day. She bathed in them and they embellished her.
The camera shooting this scene was on a tripod, Hunter realised. You did not get this level of stability and detail with a hand-held camera. There was an establishing shot, a long shot of the principal scene and then this close-up of the film’s undoubted star. And Hunter had begun to suspect he knew whose work this polished home movie was. One of his courses at Hereford had been in the creation and uses of propaganda. They had watched
Triumph of the Will
over and over,
analysing the seductive power of Leni Riefenstahl’s lighting and editing and her selection and composure of images. Hunter had learned about the lenses and film stock habitually used by Hitler’s favourite director. He knew her cinematic style. And he was pretty sure he recognised it now.
Triumph of the Will
over and over,
analysing the seductive power of Leni Riefenstahl’s lighting and editing and her selection and composure of images. Hunter had learned about the lenses and film stock habitually used by Hitler’s favourite director. He knew her cinematic style. And he was pretty sure he recognised it now.
It was not possible to see with whom Mrs Mallory shared her table. The camera angle was too high and acute for that. But there were some items laid about it that were easily recognisable. There was a silver cigarette lighter. There was a cigar cutter and a large leather cigar tube. There was a holstered Luger pistol on a coiled belt. And there was a field marshal’s baton, a polished bar heavily scrolled and filigreed like some priceless heraldic relic on the pure white of the starched table cloth.
Mrs Mallory had been talking to someone opposite her. Her words had gone unrecorded. The film had so far been silent throughout. Now she looked back up to the camera again and smiled. I move in illustrious company, the look seemed to say. And I do so very comfortably. She plucked her cigarette from the ashtray, took a drag on it and then ground it out exhaling smoke. For a moment her face was pale behind the smoke, insubstantial, like that of a ghost. Then it resolved itself again. There was a small black beauty spot to the left of her perfect mouth. She was the very embodiment of poise and glamour. She stood and someone out of shot opened a parasol over her head. Hunter thought the parasol an unnecessary precaution given the broad brim of her hat. But the Nazi high command had been a courtly lot, heavy on chivalric gesture and extravagant good manners generally. The Führer himself had introduced a fashion for the kissing of women’s hands in greetings and farewells.
The sorceress and her unseen party moved slowly in the sunshine. She was still the only figure in the frame. They moved on to an area covered in grass. This lawn appeared
scorched and scarred in dark patches. It was why the party moved so slowly, Hunter thought. It was insufferably hot. Berlin, of all German cities, had endured these endless summers of soporific heat between the wars.
scorched and scarred in dark patches. It was why the party moved so slowly, Hunter thought. It was insufferably hot. Berlin, of all German cities, had endured these endless summers of soporific heat between the wars.
The camera was hand-held now of course. And beyond the lithe, sinuous figure of Mrs Mallory, it showed where she was walking to. Her destination was a copse of trees perhaps a hundred feet away. In its shade, Hunter saw a waiting car, its windows and headlamps sparkling in odd shards of light let through the heavy leaf canopy above. The car wore a sleek coat of black coach paint. He whistled to himself, recognising the model. And he now knew that what he was watching had taken place no earlier than 1935. The Nazis had come to power in 1933. There was a gloating certainty about the mood of the film that suggested no martial setbacks had yet taken place. There was no sense of military urgency. It was still peacetime. He thought that he was looking at a Berlin day in the summer of 1936 or 1937. That was the time of their complacency and pomp. But that was over seventy years ago. A decade earlier he had met the woman he was watching on the screen now. And he had put her age in Magdalena at perhaps thirty-five. He had been somewhat wide of the mark. And Miss Hall, as he had always known in his heart, had been telling him the truth.
The car was a Mercedes Benz 540K, the eight-litre-engine Swabian Colossus, and only three hundred of them had ever been made after they first rolled off the production line in 1935. Himmler and Goering had each owned one. Hitler had turned his into a fortress on wheels with bulletproof glass and bodywork capable of surviving a grenade attack. You had to be very rich or very high ranking or both to own one of these coveted cars. Or you had to be a very important guest of the Reich, in which case one would be placed at your service for the duration of your stay in Germany.
Mrs Mallory had arrived at the car. Someone reached across from her left and opened the rear door for her. There was a passenger already awaiting her inside. The parasol, still up, concealed his face. Hunter saw that he was powerfully built and wore the pale-grey uniform and insignia of the Death’s Head Corps and that his rank was SS-Gruppenführer. The parasol was collapsed. Mrs Mallory took off her sunglasses and climbed into the car. It was very gloomy under the tree canopy and what light there was spangled through the leaves above uncertainly. And in the moment between Mrs Mallory taking her seat and the door being closed behind her, the face of her fellow passenger was visible only for the fraction of a second in which Hunter saw features lupine and predatory grinning balefully at him from out of the car’s dark interior.
The Mercedes was shifted into gear and moved smoothly away. The film flickered and the reel reached its end as a grey blur replaced the image on the screen. The thing in the car had not been human. Hunter tried to make sense of what he had just seen. But he could not. He switched off the projector and the whirr of it stopped and the screen went blank. The Germans had lost the war. The Nazis had been defeated. There was at least one eminent historian who put the allied victory down to the fact that morality had played such a compelling part in the motivation of soldiers risking their lives. Just cause had prevailed. But all Hunter could think of now, as he shivered in the marrow-deep cold of Mrs Mallory’s keep, was her refusal to lift her curse and the reason she had given for it a decade ago at her house in Magdalena.
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