Hill of Bones (40 page)

‘Actually, Giuseppe, I do, as it happens.’

Augustus Bromhead was a strange cove to look at. He was very short of stature, standing at less than five feet tall, but his head was that of a much bigger man. It topped his tiny body like the bulbous head of a tadpole, an effect that was emphasised by the unruly thatch of grey hair and goatee beard he favoured. But he was a giant of a man when it came to intellect and knowledge in his chosen field. Bromhead was an antiquarian of repute, and what he didn’t know about King Arthur and all things pertaining to the glorious history of the British Isles was not worth knowing.

He swivelled on the high stool where he perched at his study table, and penetrated his friend Malinferno with a firm gaze. The young man had rushed into his study, hidden high under the eaves of Bromhead’s rickety house in Bermondsey, with a look about him that suggested the devil was on his tail. Which did not surprise him, as Malinferno was often getting into scrapes. He had been surprised, however, by the young man’s earnest request for a commission that might take him out of London. He knew Malinferno was obsessed with this new craze for all things Egyptian, set in motion by old Nappy Bonaparte. Why all that Egyptian stuff should matter to an Englishman, Bromhead could not fathom. But then, Malinferno was half Italian, so there was no understanding his mind. He addressed his visitor again, taking care to use his proper name, which he knew irritated Joe Malinferno beyond measure.

‘But first tell me, Giuseppe, why you want to assist me, when you have nothing but scorn for my researches.’

The pale-faced Malinferno shook his head vigorously, wide-eyed with denial.

‘No, no, Augustus, old friend. I have nothing but respect for your studies of English history. Did I not help you with your examination of King Arthur’s bones?’

Bromhead snorted. ‘Indeed you did, and nearly lost them to body-snatchers and anatomists in the process. I will not trust you with such precious items in the future. However, there is an excavation I want carried out, which I am unable to supervise myself.’

Malinferno groaned. ‘Not more old bones? Arthur’s bones only got me into trouble, and I am trying to avoid trouble at the moment.’

Bromhead squinted at Malinferno over his little, gold-rimmed spectacles, the light from the fire turning his gaze red. But the young man would not supply any further information about the fix he was obviously in. Bromhead smiled secretively.

‘No, it is not bones this time.’ He paused dramatically. ‘It is treasure.’

Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This was more like it – he liked the idea of digging up treasure.

‘Where is this treasure?’

‘In a moment. First, take a look at this. It is a map drawn up many years ago by Christopher Hawkins of Bath. I found it with the text of a poem he had written about Arthur. An awful poem, by the way.’

Bromhead reached across his desk, and pushed over to Malinferno an old crackly parchment. When he looked at it, he saw an outline of what looked like an island with a series of crosses and arrows marked on it. Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This had all the hallmarks of a treasure map. He looked enquiringly at Bromhead.

‘Where is this island?’

‘Island? It is Solsbury Hill, near Bath.’

Malinferno had fretted for days about how to get to Bath in order to launch his treasure hunt on nearby Solsbury Hill. With no money to get him down there, he was stuck in London despite Augustus’ offer. Then a chance meeting with Thomas Elder as he wandered disconsolately around the British Museum had given him part of the solution. A commission in Bath to unroll an Egyptian mummy turned up, something he had done before for the fashionable élite. And it gave him the chance to take Doll with him too. They already had a good act with which to impress their wealthy clients. The trip to Bath was assured, and the dangers of London could be left behind.

Unfortunately, when they got to Bath, he found his reward – their reward – had proved niggardly. The three guineas paid by the duchess would still not be enough to bankroll Bromhead’s project.

‘I don’t know how we are going to get to the site with all the tools we need. The duchess is very sparing with her advance remuneration.’

He jangled the gold coins in his pocket, and looked at Doll. She was draped – dressed was too generous a word to use – in the light muslin shift that she was to wear as Hathor. It did little to hide her charms, which was all to the point. She had been promenading in Bath before returning to the tiny attic room she shared with Malinferno in Cheap Street. He could not help but wonder what the experience had done for the popinjays who frequented the resort. He could imagine the effect of the light from the flaming torchères that lit the Roman baths as they played on her body. Lit from behind, Doll would have appeared naked. An effect she meant to cultivate, as they needed a gullible sponsor for the enterprise that had really brought them to Bath. Apparently, despite a night of debauchery, no more money had been forthcoming.

He looked at the ravishing form of Doll Pocket again, and sighed. But then a thought occurred to him, and he reached over to the bed. Eagerly, he extracted from the deep pocket of his greatcoat two of his most treasured possessions and laid them on the baize-covered card table they were using as both dining and occasional table. He had purloined both items when doing some cleaning work for Thomas Elder at the BM. They had to be worth something.

The scarab beetle glimmered blood red in the evening light that filtered through the dusty windowpanes. But despite its beauty, Malinferno’s gaze was drawn instead to the papyrus scroll. Cautiously, he unrolled it, praying that it would not crack into fragments. He was in luck. The ancient fragment opened up to reveal a glorious, multi-coloured spectacle of hieroglyphs. As yet, no scholar had been able to decipher these antique symbols, but Malinferno was determined he would be the one to do so. He had heard of a Frenchman called Champollion who had made some headway. But he had been engulfed in the troubles in France, and no one had heard of him for a while. In England, Thomas Young had toiled for years only to decipher one word. The name – Ptolemy. Malinferno was scornful of his efforts, and knew a golden prize could be in the grasp of the first man to unravel the mystery of the Egyptian writing. He would be that man, and would make a fortune lecturing to the wealthy. Who would then pay far more to hear him than the few paltry guineas he was getting from the duchess.

He reverently touched the surface of the scroll with his fingertips, marvelling at the finely wrought images. But was each symbol a word or a letter? That was the problem.

‘Gawd. I’nt it gorgeous.’

Malinferno started from his reverie, and looked over his shoulder. Doll was tired and her accent was slipping again. She was peering over his shoulder, and her ample bosom, artfully lifted, protruded just at his eye level. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

‘Oh, yes it is, Doll.’

Doll Pocket’s bolstered charms often made a lustful satyr of Joe Malinferno. He licked his lips, as he surveyed Doll’s figure. She barely came to his shoulder, but then he was over six feet tall himself. And her blonde curls were fixed in the latest fashion, with a golden bandeau round them holding in place a frothy feather. A severe band of the same colour drew in her thin muslin dress just below her rounded bosom, emphasising its shape. The dress draped seductively over her well-formed hips, falling to her tiny, slippered feet. Despite the rather rumpled nature of her dress, and her bleary, red-rimmed eyes, which spoke of an unsettled night for Doll, the whole effect was of half-concealed voluptuousness. Malinferno dragged his eyes from her with reluctance, looking once again at the papyrus.

‘Yes. It is a beautiful thing, is it not.’

Doll snorted contemptuously, and yawned, affording Malinferno a good view of her tonsils.

‘Nah. Not that bit of gaudy paper. This.’ She leaned forward, pressing her bosom carelessly against him, and scooped up the little ruby scarab. ‘Can I have it?’

‘No, you can’t.’ Malinferno smiled wryly. ‘Though it would match the colour of your eyes perfectly today.’

Doll pulled a face, and hissed at him cattily. But she did retreat to the oval ormolu mirror that hung over the unlit fireplace.

‘Lor’, I do look bad, don’t I?’ She pulled one bleary eyelid down, and examined the mottled orb thus revealed. She decided it was not a pretty sight, and turned away from the unpleasant reflection. ‘Only it’s not my fault. I was up till all hours with Lord Bywater . . . or was it Lord Byworth?’

‘Could it have been Lord Byron?’ Malinferno offered, not a modicum pleased with his ready wit so late at night. The thought of Doll cavorting with the mad, bad poet was a delectable picture.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Lord Byron.’

Malinferno hooted with laughter.

‘I think not, Doll. The audacious poet of that name has been abroad for a good few years. I believe he is now in Ravenna, not Bath, and good luck to him.’

Doll’s features flushed, giving her pale cheeks a more rosy hue.

‘The bastard. He said he was Lord Byron, and even dashed off a poem for me. I have it in my reticule.’

She dug around in her little bag for a while, finally giving up the hunt when the piece of paper refused to be found.

‘Sod it, I must have lost it. Well, if he wasn’t Byron, then the ode wasn’t worth the paper it was written on anyway.’

She hawked and coughed in a most unladylike manner, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

‘Come to think of it, the wine he gave me was like sheep’s piss too. But the point of the story is that whoever he was, he skipped without paying while I was kipping. Result was, me getting back home with no money, and only your lovely self for company.’

She drew one slender finger seductively down the front of Malinferno’s partially undone, soiled linen shirt as she uttered these final words. The professor was unimpressed, and stopped her hand before it reached a region where his brain would cease to function.

‘Nice try, Doll. But I will have the scarab back.’

‘Damn you, Joe Malinferno.’

Doll stamped her pretty slippered foot, and dropped the ruby scarab she had purloined into Malinferno’s upturned palm. He closed his fist over it, and winked at Doll.

‘Anyway, I need to sell it, or you and I will not have any means of getting to Solsbury Hill after we do the unrolling for the duchess.’

Doll Pocket gave out a whoop. ‘Then we are off on the treasure hunt, after all?’

Malinferno grimaced. ‘Yes, if I can sell the scarab.’

As if deliberately trying to annoy him, Doll suddenly cackled like a demented hen, and grabbed Malinferno by the waist. She swung him round in a madcap dance that had the aged floorboards creaking under them.

‘Oh, we’ll have a real good time, won’t we, Joe?’

Her celebration was suddenly drowned out by the most hideous noise Malinferno had ever heard. It resembled the sound of a pedestrianist running the race of his life, gasping for each breath. It would have to be a giant of a man, though, for the breaths were ear-splitting hisses and snorts that rent the air with their exhalations. These frenetic gasps were accompanied by a veritable thrumming, like the parts of a weaving loom, or water pump in a flooded mine, with overtones of howling dogs. Doll pulled up the sash window, and thrust her head out.

‘Oh lawks, it’s the very devil come to carry us away.’

Malinferno peered over her shoulder, aware of the softness of her skin and the alluring scent that perfumed it. He realised her expostulation was not far from the truth. Slowly rolling to a halt in front of their lodgings was a shiny black four-wheeled coach. But the unnerving thing was that there were no horses attached to the front of it. Smoke and steam roiled around the rear of the coach, giving it the very appearance of some demon’s conveyance. The whole contraption vibrated like a living creature. On the driver’s seat perched a dwarfish figure wreathed in a dirty green coat, his face obscured by a heavy black mask. Malinferno realised that the sound that resembled howling dogs had in truth been howling dogs. Wherever this hellish coach had come from, it had been chased by a gathering pack of street curs, which yelped and barked at its passage, baring their teeth in fear and loathing. The pack now stood at a safe distance from the steaming rear of the coach, growling and circling. The dwarf rose from his seat, skipped down nimbly to the ground, and threw a stone at the dogs. They slinked away, apparently more scared of the little demon than his conveyance. He then turned towards Malinferno’s lodgings, and toiled one at a time up the steep steps to the front door. Doll squealed in a mixture of horror and delight.

‘Blimey, Joe, have you made a pact with the devil or something? Because I think he’s come to collect.’

It turned out that there was nothing demonic about the steam-shrouded carriage and its dwarfish driver. In fact, its appearance heralded another stroke of good fortune for Malinferno. For, when Joe descended to the front door to admit the little man, he discovered the conveyance had indeed come for him. But it was not sent by Satan. The owner of the new-fangled, steam-powered horseless carriage was none other than the niggardly Duchess of Avon. The dwarf, John Smallbone by name, pulled the leather mask with round glass portholes for each eye from his face, revealing a quite cherubic expression. He explained that his mistress had sent him to collect ‘the professor’ as the venue for the unrolling had been changed. Malinferno was intrigued, but pulled a face, jingling the coins in his pocket.

‘I am not sure I can afford to work for your mistress, John Smallbone.’

The dwarf cackled, his chubby face turning bright red with the effort.

‘The mistress is careful with her money, isn’t she?’ He tapped the side of his bulbous nose. ‘But I think you will find her more generous due to these changes in circumstance.’

‘What does the new commission entail?’

‘I cannot say, but I am told you are to come with your actress friend . . .’

Doll, who by now had come down to stand behind Joe, and was listening to the exchange, gave a cry of annoyance.