The Triforium Page 15

  “You have returned young witch.”

  “Ahhhhhhhh……” Emma’s scream reverberated throughout the cavernous stone walls of the Abbey.

  “Oh … my god you scared me,” she stammered as she frantically turned to look at the security guard who was stationed in front of the High Altar.

  “Fear him not. His senses are dulled. He and his ilk have no more comprehension than a rag doll, after midnight.”

  The ghost of Tom Parr clarified. “The Reverend sees to it that we are not disturbed. Odd though, that the door was unlocked. You were fortunate that they had all been busy talking about a football match earlier and failed to secure that door before the Reverend’s languorous enchantment came upon them.”

  “Tom, I’m so happy to see you. I never thought I ever would be glad to see a ghost.”

  “But of course, the ladies have always liked me.”

  “Oh I’m sure of that,” Emma said, appealing to his vanity, “but I’m actually here to see your Reverend. It’s really urgent that I talk to him.”

  “No one sees him unless invited. I told thee this earlier when thoust were here last.”

  “Yes, I remember but Maeva … the witch who was with me when thoust told me earlier … is now in big trouble. You also said back then that the Reverend puts everything right. I need to see him! Maybe he can put the entire coven to sleep. I’m so afraid that they might burn her alive. They said that they were going to burn her friend tonight.”

  “Witches being burned is the natural order of things. I’m pleased that they are now doing everyone the courtesy of burning one another. Why would this matter to the Reverend? Why should he care if your friend goes up in smoke? One fewer witch, I say.”

  “Well, maybe he wouldn’t care but would he care if her friend Butterfield is burned? I know they are definitely going to burn him and he’s no witch.”

  “Butterfield … a Mr. Wallace Butterfield?”

  “Yes, Wallace Butterfield. Maeva calls him Wally. You know him?”

  “No. But there has been lots of chatter about him coming up from the crypts after midnight. Maybe you do need to see the Reverend. Come with me child. I will take you to his office.”

  Tom Parr then materialized a wooden staff from thin air. Leaning on it with his left shoulder, he took Emma’s left hand in his right. His touch was cold and clammy. She felt as though she had hold of a melting icicle but Emma fought her desire to pull away from his grasp and moved with him as he tugged her towards the small door that led to the stairway.

  Neither of them spoke as they ascended the stone turret that would take them to the triforium. Unlike Butterfield, Emma did not screech when she saw the sheeted statues of discarded saints and notables that were backlit by the window at the top of the stairs. Why should she? She was holding hands with the real thing.

  Tom Parr’s staff thumped along the thick planked unfinished flooring as he guided Emma around battered stone gargoyles and the wooden crates that were labeled Royal Wedding, Coronation, and State Funeral. Eventually, they came upon a rustic medieval door with weathered bronze strap hinges. Standing next to the door was a security guard, like the one by the High Altar. He too appeared to be frozen in time. The ember of the cigarette that was between his lips glowed but did not burn.

  “Emma,” for the first time Old Tom Parr didn’t call her young witch, “I will go no further with thee. The Reverend is beyond that door. I must go.” His voice sounded as though he had lost his nerve. The staff fell from his hand, clattering upon the triforium floor, as he faded to a blue shimmer that was absorbed by the darkness.

  Most people would have been very relieved to see a ghost go, especially within the dark confines of an ancient abbey, but to Emma it meant that she was alone and truly on her own. Though frightened, she was resolute. She had made it this far, escaping witches, evading security, and enlisting the aid of the spook of a one hundred and fifty-two year old man, why would she shrink away now? Her luck had been holding. Why not test it one more time? This would be it. Beyond the door was the Reverend. Tom Parr said that he was the one who made everything right. All she had to do was knock on the door. Emma was so frightened and it would be so easy to run down the steps and out of the Abbey. But then there was Maeva. Maeva had been so kind to her. Maeva had taught her that she was something special and now she needed her help.

  Emma was not going to desert her. Steadying her nerves, she took two deep breaths and then knocked on the door.

  She could hear voices and stirring coming from on the other side. Then, with a creak that had been nurtured through the centuries, the door to the office in the triforium opened, but only partially.

  An eye stared out through the crack. It was a dark brown eye, surrounded by dark brown skin.

  The door slammed shut.

  Emma could hear some more conversation, but this time it was heated. Then it stopped, and the door was again opened, this time a little bit wider. It was clear to her that she was being examined, and by a ghost who was dressed very much like Old Tom Parr.

  “Go away!” he said as he slammed the door shut.

  “But I’m not going to go away!” she shouted loudly enough so that she could be heard in the room on the other side.

  There was some more conversation, then the door, now groaning on the hinges, opened all the way out.

  “Well, do come in then,” said a man dressed like a minister. “My secretary, Mr. Bradshaw has just advised me that you are an associate of that charming woman, Maeva Wolusky. Is that true?”

  “Why … yes.” Emma was a bit stunned. This wasn’t what she was expecting; the office was quite nice, in an old fashioned way. It wasn’t at all spooky looking … except for Mr. Bradshaw.

  “How nice of you to come pay us a visit. I’m Reverend Poda-Pirudi and you are?”

  The Reverend extended his hand. Emma clasped it, expecting it to feel like a melting icicle but it was actually soft and quite warm.

  “I’m Emma … Emma Ludshorp.”

  “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance Miss Ludshorp. We so rarely get company up here. Gets quite lonely at times. I was just remarking to Mr. Bradshaw the other day that wouldn’t it be nice if someone took the bother to climb up all of those steps and negotiate their way through those interminable packing crates to pay a social call on us. And here you are. Oh do come in.”

  Emma walked into the office and across the ebony and white oak parquet floor to a maroon velvet chair that Mr. Bradshaw had pulled out for her. She hesitantly seated herself in it while the Reverend sat down behind a large elaborately carved wooden desk.

  “Dandelion burdock?” he said.

  Emma looked confused.

  The Reverend thought she hadn’t heard him. “Could we offer you a drink of dandelion and burdock? No trouble you know.”

  “Excuse me? I don’t know what that is. Why would I want to drink it?”

  “Oh … sorry … sorry. The centuries do fly by. Dandelion and burdock was a very popular drink with the young ladies not too long ago.”

  John Bradshaw shook his head hoping the Reverend would see him.

  “Silly me. It was popular quite some time ago. How the centuries do fly. But it does taste good and is full of all sorts of good things too — dandelion roots, the root of a burr weed, vanilla bean, honey, ground ginger, and black treacle.”

  “No. But thank you. I’m not allowed to drink absinthe so I’m sure I shouldn’t be drinking that.’

  “But it is non-alcoholic. But perhaps you would prefer a phosphate soda of some kind? Johnny, what do they call those things now?”

  “Soft drinks, Reverend.”

  “Ah yes. Could we offer you a soft drink?”

  The Reverend’s hospitality wasn’t making Emma feel at ease and she certainly didn’t want to socialize. She want
ed to get help to Maeva even at the risk of offending the guy who seemed to have all the ghosts in the Abbey at his beck and call.

  “I want nothing to drink. Please be quiet, and let me tell you what’s wrong. Why I’m here!”

  At first the Reverend appeared to be stunned, downright flabbergasted. Then he placed his hands on his chest and began to laugh.

  “Oh thank you Miss. Ludshorp. It has been a very long time since anyone has put me in my place. And I’m not at all accustomed to the feeling. I imagine that such a sensation will do me a bit of good. But here I am again distracting you from the purpose of your visit. Do go on Miss Ludshorp, tell me what’s troubling you. Perhaps I may be of assistance?”

  “That’s why I came. I was told by Tom Parr that you make everything right and I really need you to do that now.”

  “Tom Parr? Who is Tom Parr? Johnny do you know a Tom Parr?”

  “The cheese eater Reverend.”

  “Oh that fellow down in Poets’ Corner. Johnny would you write Mr. Parr’s name in my appointment book for tomorrow?”

  “Of course Reverend.”

  “Please, continue Miss Ludshorp.”

  “My friend Maeva. She’s our president, the president of WITCH. I’m a member of WITCH.”

  “I have some knowledge of Miss Wolusky and her little club in Mayfair. And if you don’t mind me saying so, your being a witch … well it shows. But do go on.”

  “Well, there’s another witch — Hecuba. She’s grabbed a hold of Maeva and I’m sure she plans to do something awful to her.”

  “A revolution in the clubhouse, how distressing. But why do you think they are going to do anything awful to her … beyond tear up her membership card?”

  “Because they’ve got her friend Wally too. They’ve got him all wrapped up in tape and some nasty ghost … Albert Crowsfeet … or something like that … told them to burn Wally tonight. If they do that to him, they probably will do something like that or even worse to Maeva. Hecuba doesn’t like her much.”

  “Well I guess she doesn’t! But you will be relieved to hear Miss Ludshorp that the situation is well in hand. I have one of my associates down there as we speak. He is a very capable gentleman and I’m sure that if the situation gets out of control with either the fate of Miss Maeva Wolusky or Mr. Wallace Butterfield that I would most certainly receive a phone call apprising me of this information. Wouldn’t I Johnny?”

  “Why yes Reverend.”

  “Good. By the way, Johnny, who is presently monitoring the activity at Tipsy Dolls?”

  “Well it was supposed to be Mr. Darwin … but he was suffering from some malady. I believe … chronic fatigue syndrome … or perhaps it was a migraine? Anyhow, he told me that he was having Sir Isaac stand his watch for him.”

  The Reverend appeared to be in some discomfort as he sprung up from his chair.

  “Excuse me Miss Ludshorp. I need to have a private discussion with my secretary,” he said as he glowered at Bradshaw. Pointing his finger in the direction of a back room he added, “Perhaps it would be best to have our little chat in your office Mr. Bradshaw.”

  The Reverend and his now dejected looking secretary disappeared into a small room just off of the Reverend’s office. When the door to this mini-office closed, the shouting began. Emma could tell that it was the Reverend who was doing all of the shouting.

  Within a few minutes, the door to Mr. Bradshaw’s office opened again. As it did, the ghost of John Bradshaw flew through the closed door that led out into the triforium like he was some kind of blue comet.

  The Reverend Poda-Pirudi now came back into the room and again sat at his desk. He took in a couple of deep breaths, then turned his attention to Emma.

  “A minor snag I assure you. We have this well in hand. Are you sure I couldn’t interest you in a phosphate soda?”

  “Oh no … are Maeva and Wally going to be all right?” Emma asked now with even greater urgency than before.

  “Yes. Yes, just a little glitch. We’ll see what Johnny has to say when he returns from downstairs. It shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

  No sooner had the Reverend spoken than John Bradshaw shot through the closed door that he had exited from.

  “Perfect timing Johnny. What news do you bring?”

  “There has been some confusion over who was responsible for being at Tipsy Dolls this evening. As you know, Darwin handed the responsibility to Sir Isaac. I’ve just had word with Sir Isaac and apparently he’s under the misapprehension that you preferred having Sir Frederick Herschel take over for him.”

  The Reverend Poda-Pirudi’s eyes bulged. His face puffed. His hands, which had been folded in front of him on his desk, unclasped and formed fists, which he used to bang the top of his desk with. A strange high-pitched whining noise came from him. It almost sounded girlish. But it subsided quickly and as it did, his composure returned to him.

  “Forgive me my dear Emma. Just a momentary loss of our bearings. Everything will soon be tippity-top. Johnny would you get my appointment book please?”

  John Bradshaw went into his office, returning with the Reverend’s appointment book.

  “Please remove Tom Parr’s name from my appointment book for tomorrow and replace it with the names of Mr. Charles Darwin and Sir Isaac Newton.”

  “Yes, Reverend. Anything else?”

  “There is one thing more. Under Sir Isaac’s name place yours as well.”

  “Oh … of course Reverend,” Bradshaw said, visibly shaken.

  Now I believe that you and I have a night’s work to do. Miss Ludshorp, I’m afraid I’m going to insist that you stay here for a little while.”

  Emma began to rise from her seat to protest.

  “No. No. I know you want to come with us and that is most admirable but I will not hear of it. In this I am firm. However, I will have Mr. Darwin and Sir Isaac come up here and tend to your needs while we are away. I’m sure that by now you are most sick of the company of old ghosts, and who could blame you? But it will not be for long. And they will be on their very best behavior. On this I can assure you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Sacrifice

  It was a little after three in the morning when the black cab containing the immobilized body of Wallace Butterfield showed up at the Embankment. Earlier, Hecuba had sent out most of her crew to start dumpster fires around Victoria Station. If their missions were successful, the police would spend the night searching for arsonists on the other side of town. They’d be oblivious to the main event, and Hecuba and her confederates would be well clear of Cleopatra’s Needle by the time the Metropolitan Police arrived. It would take them days to identify the charred remains.

  As Butterfield was carried from the cab, Artemisia began to mutter some Egyptian mumbo-jumbo over him and to rub some perfumed ointment on his head.

  Hecuba had planned this like she had the first operation. It would go down like a commando raid, a surgical strike: in and out. No time for lollygagging or excess of ceremony.

  Artemisia had consulted the paper for official moonrise. It would be at 3:17. At that hour, Butterfield would be dead and they would all be on their way home ten minutes after that.

  Wallace Butterfield was exhausted from squirming and was now quite easy for the women to carry. Like a mouse gone limp in a cat’s jaws, he had surrendered, knowing that he was experiencing his last few minutes on earth. All that was left for him was to suppress his panic and take in as much of life as he could, while he could. He moaned and tears welled up in his eyes as they lugged him past one of the two large bronze sphinxes that guarded the side entrances to Cleopatra’s Needle. His life had been uneventful up to now, a bit stale and reclusive; still it was his life and they were going to take what little pleasure he derived from it away.

  Butterfield was placed s
tanding up against the granite obelisk that, over three thousand years ago, had been erected in the Egyptian city of Heliopolis, as commanded by the pharaoh Thuthmosis III. Now it jutted out over the Thames. Floodlights illuminated it. The hieroglyphics that had been carved into the stone long ago could still be read even though equatorial heat, sand storms, London pollution, and a Nazi bomb had weathered and scorched them.

  Illumination from the dolphin-ornamented lampposts that ran along the Embankment was revealing too much of what was going on. Hecuba ordered that Butterfield be hidden from the light and had him placed under a park bench. Then she and her three companions sat on the bench, using their legs to further obscure him.

  They had removed all of their Egyptian trappings back at Tipsy Dolls and had re-dressed and were now looking quite ordinary. Only the time of night could call attention to them. They waited anxiously. It was only a few minutes before moonrise and the promised appearance of Aleister Crowley.

  Artemisia passed a brown paper bag that hid a bottle of absinthe to Hecuba and then asked a little sheepishly, “Does our master appear in the form of a lion?”

  The question caused Hecuba to remove the bottle from her mouth. She answered Artemisia peevishly. “No, of course not. Why? Do you see the Goddess?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s just that those lions are beginning to creep me out.”

  Artemisia pointed at the large bronze lion heads affixed to the river wall just above the waterline of the River Thames. They had been placed there in 1860. Though not used much anymore, each lion still had a mooring ring in the grasp of its jaw.