The Angel of Highgate (3 page)

“Do not take on so, Algy. It’s not as if they were persons of any import. After all, they were talking to you.”

An ancient serving person shuffled over and offered up a tray quivering with crystal flutes of champagne. They each took a glass and stood sipping.

“So, Algernon, how goes my little soirée?”

“Swimmingly, Geoffrey. As usual, you are fashionably late for your own affair.”

“Of course.”

“I must say, you seem quite ebullient tonight.”

“I feel positively messianic, Algy. After all, I raised the dead this morning. Albeit only after she raised me.”

A white-haired dowager in a sparkling tiara nodded and smiled toothily as she sailed past like an ancient shipwreck. Both men bowed slightly in return.

“I had an encounter, this morning, Algy. Something quite remarkable.”

“Yes, you certainly did, and quite a sum it cost, too.”

“You misunderstand. I saw something… a spirit…” he shook his head, trying to conjure the right word “…an angel.”

“Yes, I agree. The young girl was quite an angel, I did request only the best for you.”

“Don’t be tiresome, Algy. I speak in earnest.”

“What?”

“After I left the tomb, I saw something, a dark spirit or wraith. I pursued it, but it vanished before my eyes.”

“Fascinating,” Algernon drawled in a voice that suggested he found the subject anything but. “Tell me, was it still foggy?”

Thraxton acquiesced with a reluctant nod.

“Geoffrey, I have witnessed a fourteen-passenger London omnibus—not six feet away—vanish before my eyes in a pea-souper. I did not report it to London Transport as a supernatural disapparition of one of their vehicles.”

“Damn your skepticism. I know what I saw. We must return to Highgate some dark night, when the spirits walk abroad.”

“Sounds tiresome, damp and dismal.”

“We may catch a ghost.”

“More likely an upper-respiratory infection—wet fogs enflame the bronchioles.”

Thraxton suppressed a look of profound irritation, forcing a nod and a smile to a passing judge. “I trust you took care of all the, ah, financial arrangements this morning?”

“Yes, Geoffrey. Four of Mayfair’s best harlots as mourners and the services of Messrs. Alcock and Fitch, Undertakers. Total expenditure one hundred and fifty pounds. And now this soirée? Thirty-two magnums of champagne. Eighteen pounds of black Russian caviar. A string quartet and ten serving folk. Total expenditure two-hundred and twelve pounds, ten shillings and thruppence. Really, Lord Thraxton, even your purse must know some limits!”

The smile lurking at the corners of Thraxton’s mouth betrayed the pleasure he took in such acts of decadence. “As always, Algy, you are ever the empiricist. But one cannot reduce one’s life to a line of pounds, shillings and pence scribbled on a ledger sheet by some dusty clerk. I already told you, I intend to die a poor, lonely and destitute man, thereby leaving nothing for my detestable relatives to squabble over. For it has ever been my experience that in matters of money…”

Thraxton trailed off as his eye happened to fall upon a gentleman at the far end of the room: a short, middle-aged man with large, bushy side-whiskers and a shock of white at each temple—Augustus Skinner, a literary critic who wrote for
Blackwell’s Gazette
amongst other periodicals. In his last review of a book of poetry published by Thraxton, Skinner had dryly observed: “This latest book of doggerel—I hesitate to elevate such scratchings with the appellation of ‘verse’—is a decided improvement upon Lord Thraxton’s previous efforts. At nearly thirty pages, the volume, though diminutive, burned for a full half hour in my fireplace, supplying at least some warmth and illumination that a reading of its sorry contents failed to provide.”

At the sight of Skinner’s countenance, ballooned with laughter as he held court with three other gentlemen, Thraxton’s own face blackened like a thunder cloud. “Skinner!” Thraxton spat. “What is that man doing at
my
party, drinking
my
champagne?”

Algernon knew disaster was imminent. He had seen his friend in such a high dudgeon only a handful of times in their acquaintance. Each time the episode had ended in broken furniture, swollen knuckles, threats of law suits. “Really, Geoffrey, Augustus Skinner is on the museum’s board of directors. One can hardly expect him not to attend a cultural event—”

“Culture? What does that worm know of culture? He is a critic, a destroyer of culture who should be thrashed like the loathsome cur he is!”

Before Algernon could stop him, Thraxton stalked across the room toward the unsuspecting critic. Algernon rushed after and grabbed him by the arm. “Geoffrey, they’re unwrapping a mummy. Come see!”

“After I’ve made a mummy out of Mister Skinner!”

“There’s the most attractive lady. I believe she is in mourning.” It was a piece of news Algernon had been keeping to himself, but in order to avoid what was surely to be a horrendous scene, he now blurted it out.

At the mention of the word “mourning,” Thraxton stopped abruptly. Algernon suddenly had his full attention. “A lady, you say? In mourning?”

* * *

Deep within the bowels of the museum, a lecture theater had been commandeered for the mummy unwrapping. When Thraxton and Algernon slipped inside, a small crowd of thirty or so were gathered around a table at which Sir Hector Chelmsford, noted antiquarian and fellow of the Royal Society, was conducting the proceedings, assisted by several colleagues. On the table in front of them the mummy of a young Egyptian commoner—a woman, scarcely in her nineteenth year—was being peeled of its tannin-stained wrappings.

The two friends jostled through the crowd, seeking a vantage point. A gentleman took a step to his left, and in the opening Thraxton suddenly had a clear view of the proceedings. More importantly, on the far side of the examination table, at the front of the gathering, stood a young woman in her late twenties. Her long, blonde ringlets and peaches and cream complexion stood out in great contrast to the black mourning dress and jet earrings and necklace glittering at her throat. Even from twenty feet away, Thraxton could see that her eyes were a shade of milky blue. The sparkle in those eyes and eager smile showed her delight and fascination in the proceedings.

Thraxton spoke close to Algernon’s ear. “A handsome woman. Who is she?”

From his pained expression, it was clear that Algernon felt reluctant to share the information with Thraxton. “Constance Pennethorne. Widow of the late Charles Pennethorne, the banker.”

“She seems a merry widow. I wonder how long it’s been since she vaulted the old money-lender?”

The crowd gasped as Sir Hector peeled away another layer of wrappings to reveal a solid gold Ankh lying upon the mummy’s chest.

“Ah-hah!” exclaimed Sir Hector. “We have discovered an Ankh, a talisman often found within the wrappings of mummies, traditionally placed over the heart.”

Thraxton stepped from his place in the crowd, sauntered up to the examining table and calmly snatched the golden Ankh from the hand of the surprised Sir Hector, flourishing it aloft for all to see. “The Ankh, symbol of life everlasting,” Thraxton announced to the crowd.

Sir Hector, mouth agape, looked on, speechless and dumbfounded.

“But as the poet Mister Keats has taught us, the only thing everlasting is truth and beauty. And so I give this Ankh to the most beautiful lady here.” Thraxton strode over to Constance Pennethorne, dipped a slight bow, and presented the Ankh to her. Clearly surprised, she received the amulet with a delighted smile and a curtsey.

The crowd broke into spontaneous applause, while Sir Hector broke into spontaneous combustion. As Thraxton stepped away to return to his place, Sir Hector rushed over. “See here, Lord Thraxton,” he sputtered. “I really must protest. That is an historical artifact. It belongs to the museum!”

Thraxton slapped Sir Hector on the shoulder good-naturedly and whispered in his ear. “There, there! Be a good sport, old fellow. Let’s not forget the great beneficence I have shown the museum. In fact, I believe I’m just about to make my annual gift. Please don’t put me in a parsimonious mood.” He gave Sir Hector’s shoulder a bruising squeeze, “Besides,” he said reassuringly, “plenty more mummies where that one came from.” And with that, Thraxton traipsed away, leaving Sir Hector to wheeze and vent like a small round kettle left on the boil.

Algernon was watching from the back of the crowd, and a jealous grimace flashed across his face.

* * *

A refreshments table had been laid out along one wall of the Mummy Room. Algernon was munching a watercress sandwich when he saw Constance Pennethorne approach the table and eye the punch bowl. This time he decided he would not let the opportunity slip by. He choked down the mouthful of sandwich he was chewing, and tossed the half-eaten remainder behind a nearby sarcophagus from the reign of Akhenaton. As he stepped over and bowed low to her, his tongue worked frantically to pry loose a piece of watercress stuck between his teeth.

“Mrs. Pennethorne? My name is Algernon… Algernon Hyde-Davies.”

Constance looked up from the punch bowl straight into Algernon’s eyes. Her gaze was disarmingly intense and seemed to look straight into his brain, almost as if she could see everything he was thinking. Algernon wondered if he had watercress wedged between his teeth and felt his cheeks warming, but Constance smiled and offered her hand.

“So nice to make your acquaintance, Mister Hyde-Davies. You are a friend of the impetuous Lord Thraxton, are you not?”

Algernon took her gloved hand and held it gently.

“I have that, ahem, honor, ma’am. I do hope that my friend’s ostentation caused you no embarrassment. Geoffrey does have rather a flair for the dramatic—”

With his usual timing, Thraxton suddenly appeared at the table. “Not again, Algy!” he exclaimed. “My friend is always apologizing for my behavior!”

“Then you must find him a very useful friend to have, Lord Thraxton.”

The quickness of her answer took them both by surprise. Thraxton smiled and laughed. “By that I take it you know of me, ma’am?”

Algernon scooped a dipper full of crimson punch into a glass and offered it to Mrs. Pennethorne.

“I know of your reputation.” She accepted the punch, smiled graciously, and thanked Algernon before returning her attention to Thraxton. “Some of my confidants describe you as nothing less than the wickedest man in London.”

Thraxton’s smile buckled slightly. The woman was very blunt.

“Your confidants flatter me, Mrs. Pennethorne, but offhand I can think of at least three men who are much wickeder than I. Pray tell, what else do these confidants say about me?”

“That you are given to a great many dalliances, including Lady Warrington, a married woman, and Eliza Perkins, an actress on the London stage, not to mention the never-ending parade of pretty young horsebreakers you are seen in the company of.”

Algernon found it impossible to keep the smirk from his face as Thraxton cleared his throat and shifted his feet uneasily. Thraxton was used to being the one to shock and raise eyebrows. It appeared as though he had finally met his equal in the disarmingly beautiful Mrs. Pennethorne. While the Lord squirmed, Constance took a sip of her punch and turned her aqueous eyes once more to Algernon. “I confess I know nothing of you, Mister Hyde-Davies. Have you no reputation to besmirch? Or are you merely given to being discreet?”

Algernon found his tongue knotted like a badly tied cravat as his mind grappled for a witty retort. She suddenly raised her eyes to look at something over his shoulder. Algernon caught the direction of her gaze and turned to look.

An elderly couple hovered a few feet away.

“Ah,” Mrs. Pennethorne said, “I see my friends the Wakefields are waiting for me.” She turned back to Algernon and Thraxton. “Lovely party, Lord Thraxton. I did so enjoy myself and thank you again for my little memento of ancient Egypt.” She offered him her hand.

“Perhaps you will think of me when you wear it,” Thraxton said, kissing her gloved knuckles.

“Perhaps.” Constance turned to Algernon and once again offered her hand. “So pleasant to meet you, Mister Hyde-Davies.”

As he took her hand, Algernon could not tear his eyes from hers long enough to bow. “Yuh, yes,” he stammered. “And pleasant meeting you. Was. For me. I mean… pleasant.” He smiled. Her eyes truly were amazing. Such a shade of blue.

“Mister Hyde-Davies?”

“Er, yes?”

“My hand, sir. I shall require its return.”

Algernon realized he was still gripping her hand. He released it and stammered an apology.

She bowed her head demurely and ended with, “Good day to you both, sirs.”

Quite entranced, Algernon and Thraxton watched her walk away on the arms of Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield.

“What a singularly splendid lady,” Algernon enthused. “Lovely, and yet so quick-witted and agile of mind.”

“Yeeeesss,” Thraxton drawled. “Nicely adequate bosom, too. Perhaps I shall send her my card. What do you say, Algy?”

“Oh, I hardly think Mrs. Pennethorne is for you, Geoffrey!”

“Why ever not?”

“Not really your type, old fellow. I mean, she is a lady. A woman of great refinement and sensibility. A true gentlewoman!”

Thraxton plunged a glass into the punch bowl and dredged it out, dripping. “But I consider myself a man of great sensitivity and refinement. Am I not?” As he said it he turned and threw his arms wide. In doing so he banged shoulders with another man, sloshing red punch down the front of the man’s white shirt and black dinner jacket.

The owner of the dinner jacket was none other than Augustus Skinner.

“You clumsy oaf!” Skinner roared. He tore a handkerchief from his pocket and agitatedly blotted the front of his jacket. “You did that on purpose, you swine!”

Thraxton was anything but perturbed. “Either I am an oaf, or I am a swine. I can hardly be both.”

“A gentleman would at least have the decency to apologize.”

“A gentleman would not be staggering about like a drunken ape, crashing into people.”

Skinner’s face flushed crimson. He visibly bristled. “Of all the outrageous impudence! You shall apologize!”