The Parliament of Blood (7 page)

‘Henry tells me you've some little acting experience yourself.'

‘Little is right,' Liz said, feeling her cheeks redden without the need for rouge.

‘That's lucky.'

‘Why?'

‘I need a maid,' Marie said. She laughed as she saw Liz's expression. ‘I don't mean I
really
need a maid, dear. But little Beryl who was playing Marguerite's maid didn't turn up this evening. Henry says he always worried about her and doesn't expect to see her again. He's usually right. Good at judging character. What do you think?'

Liz felt her face was burning now. ‘Me? But, what if Beryl does come back? What if she's been ill or something?'

‘What if she doesn't?' Marie countered. ‘It isn't a big role. Not many lines. But lots of time on stage with Marguerite. I need someone I can get on with, and just between the two of us, Beryl was such a …' She stopped and laughed. ‘Well, I won't say what she was, but I'm sure you get the idea. She wasn't someone I could easily talk to. Be a friend.'

‘I, well …' Liz was blustering. ‘My father, he doesn't really … That is, I'm not sure if I could – if I'd be able to …' Her voice faded as she ran out of words, still without saying what was on her mind.

‘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.'

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 the 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?'