The Matrix (18 page)

Three shallow steps took me down to the floor. The interior was poorly lit, and it took all of half a minute before my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The door closed on a spring behind me, banging gently. Beyond, I could see several shelves piled with books, and scattered across the floor were heaps of unsorted volumes and magazines. What wallpaper was visible was brown and yellowing, showing here and there patches of damp; in the corners and between portions of the shelves there hung black cobwebs. A musty, decaying smell filled the air.

It was such an uncheering scene that I had second thoughts about staying. Just then, however, a door at the rear of the shop opened and a stooped figure emerged. I took him to be the proprietor. He was an old man wearing a faded purple dressing-gown over grey trousers. His white hair hung loosely to rounded shoulders, and in his hands he held a black ivory-handled cane.

I had expected someone seedy, a shabby creature with dried egg-stains on his waistcoat, an asthmatic drunkard already well into his second whisky bottle, an unshaven wreck with huge bags beneath his eyes. But there was nothing of that in the man before me – nothing lax, nothing careless, nothing down-at-heel. His eyes were bright blue and disturbingly direct; they seemed almost the eyes of a young man trapped in an old man’s body. The face was deeply etched with wrinkles, and all about the eyes hung a sad, contemplative expression. A dark mole on his cheek contrasted with the pallor of skin that possessed the singular whiteness of antique ivory.

Leaning lightly on his cane, he came slowly to the front of the shop and stood facing me. I sensed neither welcome nor dismissal in his eyes, and hurried to explain why I had come.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you,’ I said. ‘But the door was open and . . .’

‘It’s perfectly all right,’ he answered. ‘I always remain open late on Saturdays.’ He spoke with a strong English accent, and his voice was soft, melodious and measured, with a faint trace in it of . . . what? Menace? Disdain? I could not tell, yet when he spoke it both soothed and disturbed me. He went on speaking.

‘It really makes little difference to me,’ he said. ‘I live on the premises. The shop is generally open when I am up and about, and closed at any other time. I have few visitors, few customers. From time to time I send out catalogues. Were you after anything in particular?’

‘Well, I am a collector, but . . .’ I hesitated. It was unlikely someone like this would want to burden his already overstocked shop with my rather obscure odds and ends. ‘The thing is,’ I went on, ‘that I have quite a few books I no longer have any use for. I wondered if you might be interested in looking at them. I live quite near here.’

He tapped his cane on the floor. His eyes did not leave my face.

‘What sort of books?’

I explained as well as I could, emphasizing my research, playing down my own interest in the subjects in question. He listened attentively, and asked pertinent questions about certain of the titles I mentioned. He seemed to be familiar with the field.

‘Well,’ he said, when I had finished describing what I owned, ‘you have little of any merit. All common enough titles from the sound of it. But I don’t doubt I could find room for them. Provided you aren’t expecting much by way of return.’

I shook my head.

‘No, the money’s scarcely important. I’d just like to get rid of them. My . . . research has moved into other areas, and I don’t have enough room for everything.’

‘Well, come again soon and bring some of them with you. I’m sure we can do a deal. And by all means have a look round. You may find something of interest.’

I thought of making my apologies and leaving, but it occurred to me that it might be worth a glance. During my visit on Thursday, Harriet had been talking about the trouble she had experienced finding good editions of some of Hardy’s early novels. Shops like this often had decent nineteenth- century volumes.

Half an hour later, my expectations were realized. I found a copy of
Desperate Remedies
, one Hardy that I knew Harriet particularly wanted. The price pencilled on the flyleaf was well within my reach, and I decided to take it.

The old man was sitting in an armchair at the back. I handed the book to him.

‘You like Hardy?’ he asked.

‘It’s for a friend,’ I said. I handed him four pounds.

‘I’ll wrap it for you. Just give me a moment.’

He passed through the curtain that screened the back room from the shop proper, taking the book with him. A short time later, he reappeared, holding a well-wrapped parcel in one hand. Smiling, he handed it to me.

‘This was the book you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I said, taking it from him. ‘Thank you. I’ll come back next week with the other books.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready. Leave yourself time to have a proper look round. I keep my best books in the back.’

He showed me to the door and told me the best way to get back to Tollcross. I set off, carrying my parcel under one arm, buttoning my coat against the chill of the coming night.

The first thing I did on arriving back in my rooms was to pack all my occult books together and put them in boxes in a cupboard on the landing. There was a sense almost of victory in doing so. I was putting the evil of the past year behind me, embarking on a new life in which there would be no room for shadows of any sort. I had started to look forward to my father’s visit, and had already begun to think of looking for a new job. There would still be copies of the
Times Higher Education Supplement
on sale on Monday; I could pick one up and see what was on offer.

The scent of Jicky had vanished from the bedroom. I convinced myself that I must have imagined it after all. My studies had already persuaded me that there was much self-suggestion in the whole business of occult phenomena, and I could readily believe that the previous day’s unpleasantness had stirred up memories of Catriona that had focused on one significant element.

At seven o’clock I went out and bought myself some Chinese food in a nearby takeaway. I had just returned and was unwrapping the cartons when someone rang my bell. Apart from Harriet and my parents, no one knew my new address.

I went to the hall and picked up the intercom handset.

‘Yes?’

A man’s voice answered.

‘Is that Dr Macleod?’

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘It’s the police, sir. Would you mind if we came up? We need to speak to you.’

For a moment I was thrown, but I had, after all, spent much of the previous day in a police station.

‘Yes, that’s all right. I’ll let you in. I’m on the top floor.’

There were two of them, a man and a woman. We sat at the table in the living room. They were a few years younger than myself and seemed embarrassed. The woman cleared her throat.

‘We’re glad we caught you in, sir. We called earlier, but you were out.’

‘I went for a walk. I only got back a short time ago.’

‘You’re not on the telephone, so we were asked to call. Glasgow CID need to talk to you.’

‘Is it about my wife’s grave?’

‘Yes, sir, it is. They’d like to see you tonight if possible.’

‘Tonight? I can’t get to Glasgow tonight.’

‘Apparently the grave has been opened again, sir. They want you to go over. They have something to show you. If you don’t have your own transport, we can take you by car.’

*   *   *

We were in Glasgow half an hour later. My escort waited while I was taken to an interview room on the third floor. Five minutes later, the door opened and Inspector Cameron came in. He had taken me through the details of the case the day before.

‘I’m sorry we’ve had to haul you back here so soon, Dr Macleod. But the constable who picked you up in Edinburgh will have explained. Your wife’s grave was opened again last night.’

‘You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?’

He shook his head vehemently.

‘Of course not. I just wanted you here to see if you could shed some light on what we found when we went out there this afternoon.’

‘What you found?’

‘Aye, in the bottom of the grave. Whoever dug it up left something this time.’

There was a knock and the door opened. A constable in shirtsleeves came in carrying a shallow cardboard box.

‘Just put it on the table, Jimmy, and leave us,’ said Cameron.

When the door closed, Cameron approached the table, beckoning to me to accompany him.

‘You needn’t worry, Dr Macleod, there’s nothing unpleasant in the box. Just some wee things that are puzzling us.’

He lifted the lid. Inside were half a dozen assorted objects, neatly arranged. I felt my heart shrink as I looked at them. One was an Arabic talisman, a triangular piece of brass engraved with a spell in crudely executed
naskh
characters. Beside it lay a sheet of paper inscribed with a European magic square, the text written in Latin. Next to that was a silver ring: I did not pick it up, but I knew it would bear a short inscription along the inside. A goat’s hoof. A shallow bowl with traces of dried blood along the rim. A nail.

‘Why are you showing me these?’ I asked. ‘They mean nothing to me.’

‘Are you quite sure, sir?’

‘Sure? Of course I’m sure. You’re not suggesting I had anything to do with this?’

He shook his head, standing back against the wall.

‘I know of no reason to suggest anything of the kind. I was just curious, that’s all. You can guess what sort of thing they represent, though, can’t you?’

I nodded. I was finding it hard to keep control of my voice.

‘Something to do with black magic,’ I said. ‘Ritual objects, charms. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘No, of course we don’t, sir. It’s just that . . .’ He hesitated. I had to keep looking at him, I told myself that looking away would seem like an admission of guilt. ‘We understand your research brought you into contact with this sort of thing. Magic. The occult. That is what you were researching, wasn’t it, sir?’

I should have guessed they would ask around in order to find out what they could about me.

‘Not exactly, Inspector. At least, not in the way you suggest. I’m a sociologist. My work involved occult groups: their composition, meeting patterns, class structure, interconnections. I wasn’t interested in what they actually did or taught. That was never my remit.’

‘I see. So you’d never have seen things like this in the course of your work?’

‘In books perhaps. Never in the flesh.’

‘But you were involved with groups who might make use of things of this kind?’

I nodded. It seemed foolish to pretend otherwise. There were people at New College who could tell him the sort of groups I had examined.

‘Yes, certainly, but . . .’

‘In which case, we may have a motive for all this. Don’t you think so, sir? Perhaps one of the groups you were investigating took exception to something you wrote about them. Is that at all possible?’

‘Not that I know of. My relations with the subjects I studied were always amicable.’

‘You don’t know of anyone you may have rubbed up the wrong way? They can be touchy, these cranks.’

‘Perhaps. It’s possible that, without my knowing . . .’

‘Exactly, sir. You wouldn’t necessarily have known you’d offended them. This would be their way of passing on a message as it were.’

‘A very unpleasant way.’

‘Yes, we think so too.’ He paused. ‘Will you sit down a moment, sir.’

I took a chair and drew it up to the table. Cameron took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He held them out to me.

‘Smoke?’

‘No, thank you. Inspector, if this is all there is to it, perhaps it’s best forgotten.’

‘Aye, maybe. But you’re forgetting the matter of your wife’s body. That’s not so trivial. And there’s something worse than that.’

‘Worse? I don’t understand.’

‘That wasn’t all we found in your wife’s grave today.’ He put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. Smoke filled the still air between us.

‘There was a child’s body,’ he said. ‘A boy about a year old. We think he was buried alive.’

I rang Harriet’s number first thing in the morning, but she had already gone. She had not left me a number or an address where I could contact her in St Andrews. After what had happened, I badly needed to see her; she was the only person with whom I could talk openly about Mylne and his activities.

There had been noises during the night, in the space above my flat. They had stopped around dawn, but I had been unable to get to sleep. I thought I might have dreams, and I feared what I might see were I to do so. It was about eight o’clock when I finally got up. The long day stretched ahead of me, purposeless, yet full of indefinable menace.

The weather had turned colder overnight, and walking outside seemed much less attractive than it had the day before. On a gloomy day, Edinburgh can be a black and depressing city, and I was badly in need of something to lift my spirits. On an impulse, I took a bus to Kelso and spent the day visiting Floors Castle. Its glories meant as little to me as the streets I had just left. Everywhere I went, I was accompanied by the memory of sounds I wanted to forget. But I was with other people, and their company got me through the day.

Arriving back at the bus station just after seven, I decided to ring my father in the hope of persuading him to come a day or two earlier. I needed his advice and support in this fresh dilemma.

My mother answered as before.

‘Andrew, thank God you’ve rung. I wanted to get hold of you, but you aren’t on the phone now, and I’d no idea how to get in touch.’

I could tell at once that she was worried about something.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘It’s your father,’ she answered. ‘He’s been taken ill. Very ill, though Dr Boyd cannot say what the matter is. He woke in the middle of the night on Thursday, not long after you spoke to him, with the most dreadful headache. I gave him tablets, but they did no good, no good at all, and by morning he was much worse – doubled up and vomiting. I had the doctor in to him right away, and he tried a stronger painkiller. That helped a little, but the headache never left him all that day.’