Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (11 page)

“Yes?”

“We’re with Scotland Yard, ma’am,” said Bill, displaying his ID. She looked him over, then spotted Darkus.

“Both of you?”

“Intern,” explained Bill, patting Darkus heavily on the shoulder.

Darkus removed his hat courteously.

The woman looked doubtful, but opened the door wider. “I suppose this is about Lee,” she sighed. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t be any help. He’s clearly lost his marbles, hasn’t he?”

They entered the house to find it in disarray. Clothes hung discarded on chairs and lampshades, papers littered every available surface, teacups sat forgotten on ledges. But most noticeably, dozens of cardboard boxes blocked the hallway, the stairs, and much of the living room. Bill gracefully maneuvered his girth around the obstacles and followed Mrs. Wadsworth into the kitchen.

The kitchen table was also covered in and surrounded by boxes.

“May I?” asked Bill.

Mrs. Wadsworth nodded, and Bill lifted one of the lids to find the box filled to the brim with hardcover copies of
The Code
.

“There are more in the garage,” she explained. “Ordered them all on my credit card.”

“When did this behavior begin?” inquired Darkus.

Mrs. Wadsworth looked at Bill, uncertain whether to respond. “Do you want me to answer him? He’s only a boy.”

“Certainly ye should answer him,” said Bill.

“Well, it began after he started reading that infernal book.”

“Something in the book clearly appealed to him,” Darkus speculated.

“Do ye believe he may have resorted to robbery to fund his habit?” asked Bill.

“I hope that’s what he was doing!” Mrs. Wadsworth erupted. “It’s cost a fortune.”

Darkus examined a box of identical books, then looked up. “Have you read the book yourself, madam?”

“Yes, I have. I had to, didn’t I?” she continued. “To see what all the fuss was about.”

“And what did you think of it?”

“I thought it was terrible,” she replied. “New Age twaddle.”

“And it didn’t have any ill effect on you?” Darkus went on. “No feelings of discomfort, nausea, dizziness? Anything at all?”

“Nope. Just boredom,” she said, looking to Bill again, as if to ask whether it was really necessary for her to explain herself to a child.

“Intriguing,” said Darkus, nodding.

“What is this?” asked Mrs. Wadsworth, losing patience. “What’s going on? Why’s my Lee gone bonkers? And why am I being questioned by a twelve-year-old?”

“Thirteen, actually,” Darkus corrected her.

Bill turned to her reassuringly. “Did yer son say anything else about his experience with the book?”

“He said it changed his life. He said it made him feel like he was on television. Watching himself on TV—that’s what he said.”

Darkus nodded. “A common symptom of paranoid schizophrenia. The old Lee seemed to be watching the new Lee as he carried out his criminal act. Similar to the Affair of the Missing Accomplice,” Darkus reminded himself.

“Aye,” said Bill. “One of yer father’s benchmark cases.”

“Meaning?” asked Mrs. Wadsworth impatiently.

“I’m afraid I don’t yet have an answer for you,” admitted Darkus. “But I do have one more question, if I may?”

Mrs. Wadsworth shrugged her consent.

“From the well-dusted condition of your ceilings,” said Darkus, “in contrast with the otherwise unkempt nature of the living space beneath them, and judging from the effort required to carry out such high dusting and your apparent aversion to housework, I propose that your son, Lee, has an unusually powerful fear of
insects
. Particularly crawling ones. Am I right?”

Mrs. Wadsworth’s jaw dropped in a combination of awe and deep, personal affront.

“I thought so,” concluded Darkus, then turned to Bill. “That might explain the description of insects coming out of the book.”

“Aye.”

Their conference was rudely interrupted by Mrs. Wadsworth physically pushing Uncle Bill toward the front door. “I’ve told you everything I know. Now get out!”

Bill artfully negotiated the hallway, apologizing as he went. “Thank ye for yer time, Mrs. Wadsworth.”

Darkus gave Bill a wide berth, and swiftly exited the front door before it could be closed on him. Bill, however, turned to face Mrs. Wadsworth’s wrath one last time.

“A suggestion, Mrs. Wadsworth. I advise ye to get these books out of yer house immediately. Return them to the shop or hand them over to the local police.” Bill thought about it further, then added, “If necessary, burn them.”

Mrs. Wadsworth looked them both over once more. Before another word could be said, she slammed the door.

“Well, we can assume two things,” said Darkus, replacing his hat on his head. “First, the book does
not
affect every reader the same way,” he observed. “Second, if it
does
affect the reader, it draws on their innermost fears.”

“Aye,” concurred Bill.

Darkus turned the matter over in his mind. “While the idea of a grimoire is certainly appealing, it’s too easy to simply blame this on the supernatural.”

Bill shrugged. “Aye.”

“Dad once wrote,” began Darkus, “that reasoning is merely guesswork until one of the guesses leads to a universal rule that applies to the entire problem. And so far, we don’t have enough evidence to find that universal rule. We still don’t know what the affected readers have in common, or how to explain their extraordinary reaction to the book.” Darkus pondered a moment. “But we
do
know there must be a rule,” he declared. “Because, as Dad said, there
always
is.”

“Aye.” Bill nodded, having no idea what this rule might be.

“So far, all we know for certain is that the
book
is the common thread. Ergo, the next logical port of call is the author himself,” said Darkus.

Bill took out a fresh cigar and ambled back to the car. “Unfortunately, Ambrose Chambers is a very private man, and we don’t have reasonable cause to force his cooperation. But fortunately I’ve already made arrangements to speak with his literary agent at Beecham Associates in South Kensington this afternoon.” He got in and instructed the driver: “To the train station.”

Chapter 10

The Author’s Hand

After several minutes spent trying to operate the automated ticket machine, Uncle Bill bought one adult and one child fare to London’s Victoria station. As they boarded the waiting train, Bill reached into his capacious overcoat and produced an unusual-looking mobile device. He extended a long telescopic antenna from the top of it and handed it to Darkus.

“It’s a secure phone,” Bill explained, out of earshot of the other passengers. “Can’t be traced. It also scans, prints, and faxes. Took me close to three weeks to learn how to turn it on.”

Darkus pressed a small button, and the device came to life. “Looks straightforward enough.”

“Aye,” sighed Bill, before a public address system drowned him out, announcing that the train was due to depart in five minutes. “Now, I have a wee business call to take care of. Back in a jiffy.” He waddled off down the platform.

Darkus took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the phone, then looked around to discover there was still no sign of Uncle Bill. A final announcement sounded, and the train doors slid shut.

As the train moved away from the platform, Darkus looked around urgently, catching a glimpse of Bill’s unmistakable physique through the window of a pub beside the station. Bill was propped on a bar stool, heavily engaged with a frothy pint of beer, until he looked up and noticed the train was moving. Bill lurched to his feet for a moment, then realized it was a lost cause and sat back down, hailing the barmaid for another.

Darkus fought the urge to panic, and instead used the phone’s web browser to find the South Kensington address of Beecham Associates. He was interrupted by a garbled phone call from Bill, apologizing for his unavoidable delay and assuring Darkus that he would be on the next train to London. Knowing that each passing minute was leaving the trail colder, Darkus decided to overlook Bill’s shortcomings and press on with the investigation alone. He consulted his notes, which had been briskly committed to paper in a small black book, and spent the remainder of the journey turning the evidence over in his mind, waiting for the universal rule to present itself—the rule that would provide a solution to the facts.

After disembarking at Victoria train station, consuming a sandwich of indifferent quality, and traveling two stops by Tube, Darkus arrived outside the modern, glass-fronted offices of Beecham Associates. He entered the revolving doors and was discharged into a marble foyer, where a male receptionist wearing a telephone headset watched over the stark waiting area. Darkus approached the desk and announced himself.

“I have a four o’clock with Bram Beecham.” He removed his hat and offered up his ID. “The name’s Knightley.”

“This is a library card,” the receptionist answered.

“That is correct.”

The receptionist peered over the desk and looked him up and down. “I have a . . .
Darkus Knightley
at reception,” he said into his headset.

Darkus glanced around for something to look at, but found nothing of note. A few moments later, a set of elevator doors opened to reveal a tall blond assistant. She scanned left and right, looking right past Darkus, then clocked him and gazed down curiously.

“Mr. Knightley . . . ?”

Darkus nodded.

“I was expecting someone . . .” She searched for the right word.

“‘Master’ is the more appropriate prefix.”

“Right,” she responded. “I’m Chloe. Mr. Beecham will see you now.”

“Thank you.”

Chloe led him toward the elevator, swiveling her hips in a way that Darkus couldn’t recall seeing before, except perhaps in a film.

Inside the elevator Darkus felt more distracted than usual, and found himself perspiring more than usual. He put it down to first-night nerves and focused on the red numerals illuminating one by one as they made their ascent.

“Step this way.” Chloe led him to a corner office overlooking the city, where Bram Beecham was sitting at a large black desk. He was a well-maintained man in his fifties, with black hair pushed back from his temples and wearing a telephone headset and a black tailored suit designed in Italy. There was no sign of clutter or mess on his desk, nothing that might constitute a clue, only an ornamental tray of pebbles and sand that Darkus recognized as a miniature Japanese Zen garden. Clearly any paperwork was stored elsewhere.

On the wall, Beecham had photos of well-known faces from the worlds of publishing, film, and TV. Beside his computer was a framed photograph of a smiling eight-year-old girl, presumably his daughter.

Beecham stood up to inspect his visitor.

“Master Knightley,” Chloe announced.

“Thank you, Chloe,” answered Beecham, appearing puz-zled and gesturing toward an uncomfortable-looking modernist chair.

Darkus nodded and took a seat, his shoes just touching the floor.

“There must have been a mix-up. I was expecting Detective Billoch,” said Beecham, attempting a paternal smile. “Is he a relative, or guardian?”

“Technically neither,” replied Darkus. “But he’s given me permission to speak on his behalf.”

“I see.” Beecham’s expression deepened. “Perhaps I can offer you a soft beverage of some kind?”

“Unfortunately I don’t have the luxury of time,” said Darkus frankly. “I’d like to arrange an interview with Ambrose Chambers.”

Beecham raised his eyebrows and removed his headset to indicate Darkus now had his complete attention. “As I told Detective Billoch on the phone, I’m afraid that is impossible. My client is ultra-private, and besides, he’s traveling at the moment. I haven’t had contact with him in months.”

“I’d be happy to meet at a place of his choosing,” Darkus went on. “Exercising complete discretion, of course.”

“I’m afraid he categorically does
not
give interviews,” Beecham answered a little more sternly.

“Given the circumstances, I thought he’d be more willing to assist our investigation.”

“
Your
investigation?” asked Beecham.

“His book, after all, has become something of a favorite among the criminal classes.”

Beecham’s face stiffened. “Mr. Chambers is a writer, and freely exercises his poetic license, which is not yet a crime. If a handful of misguided readers choose to interpret his work the wrong way, I’m afraid that is neither his concern nor mine.”

“Technically, you’re correct,” replied Darkus. “However, we’re talking about a series of unexplained crimes—extremely serious ones—by readers with no prior record of criminal activity. So I would appreciate any insight you or your client could give me, particularly in regard to the origin of the work and its basis in ancient mythology.”