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  She gave him a peck on the cheek, walked to the door, turned, waved, and was gone.

  His heart sank as she went out the door. It took him a little while to pull himself together. But he finally consoled himself with the fact that he would soon be seeing her almost every day back at the office. It occurred to him that back at the office was where he should be. If he was going to win the heart of Maeva Wolusky, he was going to have to make something of himself. The Reverend had given him an excellent opportunity to do so and he’d best get back and start applying himself.

  Butterfield had exited Coffee Possession and was just passing McMillan’s Garden Pools and Aquariums when it happened. A middle-aged woman in jogging attire came running up behind him. She was quite a sight, her elbows and hips moving wildly from left to right as though her intention was to walk, not run, as fast as she could. Nearing Butterfield, she slackened her step and moved up to his side. This made Wallace feel a bit uncomfortable but his good manners compelled him to nod and smile politely at her. She did the same. It all seemed friendly enough, but it became disconcerting when she didn’t move on. Then, another woman, a short dumpy woman who didn’t look very athletic, moved up right next to her. She was also dressed in jogging attire and walking briskly beside him like the first woman. She also gave him a friendly smile, as did a third woman who came up and kept pace alongside her. Butterfield thought this was a bit alarming but then decided that he must have absent-mindedly blundered into some sort of ladies walking competition. It was odd that he couldn’t recall any kind of race or charitable walkathon that had been announced for the neighborhood this weekend, but he never paid much attention to that sort of thing. It became apparent to Butterfield that it would be best to move to his left and give the women a little more sidewalk room. But when he tried to do so he discovered that on his left there were three more ladies in jogging outfits. They were all grinning at him.

  This was getting to be a bit much, so he attempted to extricate himself by announcing, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea; let me get out of your way.”

  As he said this, he attempted to come to a full stop, then move onto the street and let them pass. But the thing was they wouldn’t let him stop or move in any direction but forward. Completely engulfed by a crowd of fast-walking women, he was now being rudely pushed from behind.

  “I mean really! What do you think you’re doing?” He protested, as he was rushed along.

  “You’d best let me out or—”

  As he said this, the women in front of him suddenly peeled off to the sides, leaving a narrow gap in front of him. He could see that ahead of him, where the sidewalk ended for an intersection, was a parked cab with the rear passenger door being held open by the same cabby that had chauffeured Maeva and him around London the night before.

  “Help!” he screamed as he was pushed into the back of the cab. Several of the joggers followed him in and piled on top of him as he started to struggle. Someone slammed the door.

  Wallace Butterfield attempted to struggle. He really did. Especially when multiple sets of handcuffs were pulled from numerous fanny packs. To his credit, it took several minutes of thrashing around with loose cuffs flailing about before someone succeeded in getting both the left and the right cuff to click firmly around Butterfield’s wrists. Once that was accomplished, it was easy for the other women to fasten whatever free cuff they had to an appropriate wrist. The whole operation had been performed with almost military precision. Hecuba’s career in the Royal Navy never had given her the chance to show off her natural skills, but this had gone down like a commando raid.

  Poor Butterfield. His hands were now held behind his back with five pairs of handcuffs. He was secured from his wrists to his elbows. But still, he didn’t give up. He screamed as loud as he could as the taxicab raced through London traffic. However, Hecuba was prepared for such an eventuality. Off came her jogging shorts and her military-issue flame retardant antimicrobial booty shorts. With the aid of her confederates, she managed to pry open Butterfield’s mouth and stuff her booty shorts into it. Artemisia had been designated for the next task. Producing several rolls of silver-sided duct tape that had been previously purchased by the cabbie, Artemisia began to wrap Butterfield with the unyielding tape.

  By the time the cab arrived at the old Tipsy Dolls Restaurant in Mayfair, Wallace looked like a handyman’s version of an Egyptian mummy. Only his eyes and his nose weren’t covered with silver tape.

  The cab pulled directly in front of the old staff entrance door. Artemisia hopped out first, scanned the street for prying eyes, then gave the go ahead. The women gleefully lifted Butterfield up and out of the cab. Many jokes were made at his expense as they carried him into the defunct restaurant. The clubhouse had gone through some minor renovations since Women In Therapeutic Chemical Healing had last met to discuss the peculiar state of Wallace Butterfield. The French poster in the hall of the green fairy had been removed, so had the green brocade wing chairs, as well as the silver absinthe fountains, the fancy mirrored bar, the statue of Diana the Huntress, and all the cut crystal glasses. Even the bottles of Lucifer’s Delight, Green Man’s Own, Escobas de Brujas, Hexenkessel, and Before Morning Imperial Absinthe were gone. Anything that had been associated with absinthe was now absent. WITCH was no longer concerned about chemical healing.

  But the silver brocade chairs were still there. In fact, there were many more of them. The meeting room of the coven was now solely dedicated to the large yellow sandstone carving of the Wedjat eye, the left eye of the Egyptian sun god Ra. Burning torches now flanked the carved eye. On either side of them was an honor guard of members of the coven. They stood at attention with their arms folded, almost nude, except for a skimpy covering of simple white loin clothes.

  Hecuba hurried ahead of the rest and fell to her knees in front of the massive stone eye. She then bowed to the floor before it.

  “Oh lunar force! Oh great destroying eye! Eye of Ra, God of Light! Wedjat eye! We come in supplication to thee,” she intoned almost mechanically. There was a strain in her voice. It had been a long time since she and the others had dosed themselves with wormwood and the confusion caused by her ghost pushing into her own consciousness had taken its toll.

  Artemisia hurried to Hecuba’s side. She fell to her knees and began chanting as she repeatedly bowed before the stone eye.

  “Oh Wedjat eye,

  When Ra decided to destroy mankind

  He gave you to his daughter the great lioness Sekhmet.

  Mistress of Dread!

  The Lady of Slaughter!

  Lady of the Flame!”

  Artemisia then turned to Hecuba, as though she was hoping for an approving glance. There was none. So, Artemisia laid it on even thicker.

  “Mine is a heart of carnelian,

  Crimson as murder on a holy day.

  Mine is a heart of corneal,

  The gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.

  I am the broken wax seal on my lover’s letters.

  I am the phoenix, the fiery sun,

  Consuming and resuming myself.

  I will what I will.

  Mine is a heart of carnelian,

  Blood red as the crest of a phoenix,

  the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.

  I pace the halls of the underworld

  I knock on the doors of death.

  I wander into the fields to stare at the sun and lie in the grass, ripe as a fig.

  The souls of the gods are with me.

  They hum like flies in my ears.

  I am.

  I will what I will.

  Mine is a heart of carnelian,

  blood red as the crest of a phoenix.”

  Artemisia glanced again at Hecuba. She had recited the Hymn to Sekhmet perfectly.

 
Hecuba nodded her thanks, then rose to her feet and addressed the room. “Sisters,” Hecuba croaked. “Let us make ready. We now have the mutant man Butterfield. So, we must beseech the ghost Prince Chioa Khan, the Great Beast of Revelations, the Baphomet, our dead mystic, Aleister Crowley.”

  Her voice was now a painful whisper. “The ancient Egyptians embalmed their bodies to maintain their flesh in hopes of finding everlasting life. But our great magus pursued flesh and embalmed his soul. Only he can speak to us from beyond. Only he can give us hope. We must beg him for guidance. Go prepare.”

  They stood Wallace Butterfield before the Wedjat eye, but not for long, for, it was impossible for him to maintain his balance all wrapped up in duct tape, and he kept on falling to the floor. Finally, Hecuba ordered the guards to leave their posts and hold him up while she went off to get dressed in her ceremonial garb.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Trip to the Abbey

  It took some convincing but she finally was able to persuade the car park attendant to allow her to pay for two spaces in the underground garage — though her metallic green Mercedes SLR McLaren roadster, retro-styled in the fashion of a 1950s Sci-fi rocket ship, was small enough to fit within the confines of just one parking area. The gullwing doors rising upward while opening in tandem were certainly meant to give the impression that the occupants were from an orbiting mother ship, however extraterrestrials never wore polka dots.

  The boot of the Mercedes popped open, as two women in polka dot dresses stepped out on to the macadam of the parking garage.

  “Emma dear, would you mind helping me with this?”

  Emma was more than happy to. Her visit to Tipsy Dolls had made quite an impression upon the young lady. Her lips and eyelids were no longer blackened with makeup. She had recolored her hair from blue black to Maeva’s shade of dark brunette, removed the silver bangles from her arms, and replaced her Girl Guide uniform with a dress of white polka dots on pink.

  And though a bit unsteady in this, her first attempt, at wearing high heels, Emma made up for any awkwardness with insuppressible enthusiasm. She walked quickly to the rear of the car, reached in, and began to lift up a case of Green Man’s Own.

  “No. No. That’s for the club. I made a stop earlier at Marley’s Fine Spirits on my way to pick you up at your house. We were getting a little low on this brand and Marley’s always gives us a good deal. You see his late mother was one of us … though he doesn’t know that. For some reason he has the impression that she and I belonged to some sort of absinthe connoisseur’s tasters group. In his mind Tipsy Dolls is a modish version of a sewing circle. Of course he’s right.” Maeva gave a knowing wink, which got Emma giggling. “We’ll take this stuff to the club when we’re done with our business at the Abbey. For now would you mind helping me stretch this dust cover over the car? The fleece side touches the paint.”

  “It was so nice of you to ask me along.” Emma said as she pulled the fabric over one of Maeva’s high intensity headlights. “I’ve never been to any place old and historical with kings and queens and such.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. The kings and queens are all dead and if you are looking for prince charming, you’ll find him as a bag of bones in some crypt.”They both laughed. “Still it was good of your mother to let you come. I need a sharp pair of youthful eyes and ears … in a head that’s sober. That would be you.” She pointed a long slender finger downward at Emma. “That looks perfect. Shall we be off?”

  “Yes … but what are my eyes and ears going to be doing?”

  “I don’t know yet. But we’re on a mission. Let’s say it may have something to do with a prince charming … or maybe just a charming head case. We will see.”

  “Ooh … romance.”

  “Maybe… No… Official club business.”

  Maeva said as she pressed down firmly on the button of her car key. An encrypted signal shot out with an emphatic beep immobilizing her car’s engine.

  ***

  “Johnny!”

  John Bradshaw scurried out of his little office and ran over to where Reverend Poda-Pirudi was.

  “Yes Reverend?”

  “Polka dots.”

  “Polka dots, Reverend?”

  “Indeed. I see polka dots coming through the tourist entrance. As I recall, polka dots were fashionable in the 1920 through the 1960s. We saw lots of women in polka dotted dresses rummaging about our tombs back then. Am I right Johnnie? Didn’t Minnie Mouse wear a polka dotted dress in Steam Boat Willie?”

  “I’m not sure if I remember her outfit in Steam Boat Willie … but I do remember,

  It was an itsy, bitsy, teenie, weenie

  Yellow, polka dot bikini,

  That she wore for the first time today…”

  “Stop that.”

  “Reverend?”

  “In the three hundred and some years you’ve been my secretary, I’ve never heard you sing before. It is not an all-together pleasant experience. Don’t do it again.”

  “Of course, Reverend. Never again.”

  “Good. What was that jingle?”

  “Paul Vance wrote it in 1960. It’s not a jingle it’s called Bubblegum pop. But if I may correct you…”

  The Reverend nodded.

  “Polka dots came back in fashion in 2006. A local girls pop band, The Pipettes, made wearing colored dots fashionable again.”

  “Johnny you astound me. Most spooks hang out in their crypts and go walkabout in their dreams. But you really pay attention to the fads and fashions of the living. Look at you, an expert on lady’s fashion, pop music, and polka dots as well. I have not truly plumbed the depths of your knowledge, Jonathan Bradshaw. You are far more attuned to what’s going on around you than I am. For me, the centuries often go by in a blur. I look out of our office window and down into the Abbey and see people milling about in a variety of costumes. It’s like one day they are all wearing wimples and armor, the next gowns and tuxedos, and by sunrise of the next morning they’re all in shorts and t-shirts. I’m afraid it quite often doesn’t register with me. I have to make a conscious effort to watch myself or the antics of human beings would become like the background noise of fan humming in a room. But here you are taking it all in. But then, you are still very young.”

  “Thank you Reverend.”

  “Stating that somebody is young is hardly a compliment. I’m just pointing out that you still have a … you’ll have to excuse my next pun … but you still have a lively interest in things.” The Reverend guffawed. “Oh, I see you’re not amused. I imagine I’ve been punning you…” he snickered, “to death … over these many centuries, an unintended aspect of your punishment. And I thought that forcing you to spend all of your free time in the Mucking Marshes was bad enough.”

  “No Reverend … I mean yes the marshes are awful … but I really do enjoy a good pun. Will there be anything else?”

  “You are a stoic one Johnny. Yes, there is one more thing. Please let us return to our topic of polka dots for a minute.” The Reverend said, pressing his face against his office window. “Can you explain to me why that person in the polka dotted dress … the one next to the girl in a similar garment, is causing the alarm bells to go off in my head? I find her to be most disturbing.”

  Bradshaw looked out the Triforium office window and down onto the Cosmati Pavement. “Oh … I know who she is. She’s exactly as Sir Isaac described her, an elegant brunette with a penchant for polka dots. That’s Maeva Wolusky, the president of Women In Therapeutic Chemical Healing. She’s been trying to vamp Mr. Butterfield.”

  “Yes, I suspected that was who it is. She does fit Newton’s description and from what he has told me … and he does like to gossip about these things … she’s gone far beyond trying to vamp Wally. She must be looking for information on him. We could invite her up and give her a run
down about the tower but she’s a sharp cookie and might see through all of that. Besides, Ms. Wolusky just walked over to a security guard. She’ll be up nosing around here soon. Johnny, just to be on the safe side, we’d best make ourselves scarce.”

  “Back to the marshes?”

  “Afraid so … but just until she’s gone.”

  ***

  A man in a dark blue blazer, with the coat of arms of Edward the Confessor embroidered over his pocket, was having a difficult time trying to appear as though he was not losing his patience.

  “Mam, I’m sorry, but as I told you, there is no office for a Reverend Poda-Pirudi located anywhere in the Abbey. I have never heard of any pastor of the church with that name. I assure you, if I had, a name like that would have stuck in my memory. I’m in charge of dayshift security, so that does afford me some insight into diocesan affairs. No one has ever even intimated to me that there were any plans for building a central tower here. I’m not an architect mind you but I just don’t see how that would work.”

  “Well, as you said you are no architect.”

  Maeva was beginning to believe him but she wasn’t quite ready to accept the idea that Wallace Butterfield was nothing other than a loon who liked to play architect in his father’s old office.

  “Who is in charge of renovations around here?” She said imperiously, with an edge to her voice.

  “That would be the Clerk to the Dean. But his offices aren’t here.”

  “Where would I find them?”

  “They’re off of Victoria Street. But you can’t just walk in on him. You’ll need an appointment.”

  “Oh, I’m very resourceful.”

  The Chief of Security was now sensing that this lady had the potential to get him into some kind of trouble with his superiors. He regretted telling her the whereabouts of the Clerk to the Dean.