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  “Saint Cyriacus’s arm is buried near the sewer main! Have thee a spade?”

  “A spade? Why, I think so. Yes, I keep one up in the shed. I have a small garden up on the roof.” The dean pointed in the direction of the bedroom ceiling.

  “Excellent! We will get it and be off.”

  “Be off?”

  “Yes, as I said the corporeal is needed for this task. All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity. I am but a thing of what has once been. I cannot wield a spade. But who better in my stead that the Dean of my own Abbey?”

  The Dean of Westminster looked down to where the king’s sword had cut through his mattress. And then looked back at King Edward.

  “Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I am a king and a saint!” the king bellowed.

  Then he tempered his tone, and politely added, “It is not becoming for me to go a-digging in pus-filled putrefaction. Mend your speech a little, lest it may mar your fortunes.”

  The terrified Dean nodded repeatedly.

  “I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge go get thy spade and meet me in thy Audi. ‘Tis the champagne-colored one out front?”

  The Dean again nodded.

  “Good. Men of few words are best. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger! We are off!”

  “Yes of course…”

  “Why then art thou not imitating the tiger?”

  “Oh … sorry … I just hadn’t realized it was you who had said that.”

  “What? Of course. Who else?”

  The Dean seemed bewildered for a moment, but then, as instructed, imitated the tiger and hurried off to his rooftop to get the garden spade.

  ***

  It was doubtful whether any of the residents of Ipswich Mews were awake at the hour that the Dean of Westminster entered his Audi, spade in hand. If they had, they no doubt would have wondered what his need for a digging tool was and why his task necessitated his going out in his bathrobe.

  Every turn of the Audi was second-guessed. There could be no tailgating of taxicabs, though they saw only two. Rolling through a stop sign was strictly forbidden and the speed limit had to be observed. As the Dean drove to his Abbey, his blood pressure was whizzing, his heart was palpitating, his stomach was churning, and his brain was spinning. This rapidly deteriorating physical state was not helped at all by the fact that there was a 1,000-year-old dead king seated next to him. Nor, was it helped by the fact that this long-dead king insisted on telling him how to drive.

  The Dean of Westminster Abbey was relieved when he finally parked his car in front of the south lawn. He grabbed his shovel and followed the floating apparition of King Edward to the fenced-off area where the sewer line had fractured and created a deep dark smelly depression.

  Looking down into the five-foot deep sinkhole, the Dean hesitated. King Edward slid near him, clasping him about his shoulders as he whispered into an available ear, “Now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide.”

  Grinning, he pointed into the hole.

  The Dean saw no humor in the remark. He climbed down into the hole as any man would who knew his duty. He was afraid, but resolved.

  ***

  It was a long grisly night of digging, shovelful after shovelful of vile smelling grey muck and no glimmer of gold or silver from the sacred arm of Saint Cyriacus. But King Edward skipped and capered about the edge the sinkhole offering regal encouragement and advice. When the Dean had dug down well beyond the depth any thief would consider appropriate to hide his loot, the King would point to a new section of the hole. He would exclaim enthusiastically that, most assuredly, the arm was buried there. Back and forth all night, the Dean went from one spot to the next, excavating one new site after another. His dressing gown and pajamas had long since become indistinguishable from the earth he had been working in. He was giving up hope on ever finding the holy relic as the sun began to rise.

  Then, the king looked down upon him and gleefully exclaimed. “But, soft! Me thinks I scent the morning air. Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, the extravagant and erring spirit hies to his confine.”

  “What? You are going?” the Dean asked panting. He sank the point of his spade into the ground and used it to steady himself. “Why? Why are you leaving?”

  King Edward pointed to where the morning fog was lifting near a cluster of trees. The Dean then clamored up to the rim of the sinkhole to get a better look. Two constables were walking straight towards him. In horror, he turned to the king to ask him what they should do but King Edward the Confessor had vanished.

  Chapter Nine

  The Performance

  “Bradshaw, have we heard anything from Sir Isaac and Charles yet?”

  The ghost of John Bradshaw had just entered Reverend Poda-Pirudi’s office, his arms loaded with the day’s mail.

  “Why no, Reverend. It’s been some time hasn’t it?”

  “You know, I expressly told them to keep in touch.”

  As if it were haunted, the electromagnetic bell clapper in the telephone ringer box went off. It was as though the device sensed the Reverend’s frustration.

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi removed his telephone’s receiver from the hook and placed it against his ear as he brought the rest of the phone up close to his mouth to speak.

  “Reverend Poda-Pirudi speaking. Oh, Sir Isaac how strange that you should call now,” he said with a smirk.

  On the other end of the telephone, in a red telephone kiosk on the Walpole Road, the ghost of Sir Isaac Newton began to make up for lost time by giving Reverend Poda-Pirudi a long and exhaustive report concerning the events of the preceding day.

  “Well, Sir Isaac, so things went well then?”

  It was apparent that the Reverend knew that he had miscalculated by asking the question. Even before Newton’s ghost started to reply, Reverend Poda-Pirudi pulled the earpiece away from his ear, as though he expected to be burned by its heat.

  “Yes Ike. Yes, Ike I know. I really didn’t expect Charles to be hired, but I confess I hadn’t expected that polka dot lady. What’s her name? Maeva. For Maeva to get the job. That was good thinking on behalf of Women in? Oh, yes thank you. Women In Therapeutic Chemical Healing. I think I’ve got it now. Oh yes, did Charles get the message through?”

  As Reverend Poda-Pirudi braced himself for the next response, John Bradshaw slipped a copy of The Sun onto his desk, just under his nose.

  “Excellent!” the Reverend exclaimed. “Simply excellent. No, no, not you. I mean I’m very glad that Chuck got the point across, but something has just come up and I’ve got to ring off. Thank you so much, and please do keep in touch.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi picked up the copy of The Sun and began to read the featured article on the front page. The banner headline read: “Dean of Westminster Abbey Surprised by Police While Digging for a Lost Reliquary Near Ruptured Sewer Main.” Under a photograph showing an indignant Dean lecturing two constables, the caption read “Claims he had instructions to do so from the spirit of Saint Edward the Confessor.”

  “My, my Johnny, you certainly did a good job of timing on that one. I assume that you called in the police and the press. Waited for daylight, did you, then called everybody up?”

  The Reverend had to pause a minute to chuckle. “He certainly got himself covered with mud didn’t he?”

  “Yes Reverend, he did. Thank you. It all came together rather well.”

  “Indeed it did. Well, I think our office will be safe for a little while. No museum here. Where is the Dean now?”

  “Here in Lon
don, Bethlehem Royal Hospital.”

  “Well good job all around! Tell King Edward that I really appreciate his work.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m afraid—” Bradshaw stopped himself in mid-sentence.

  “You are afraid what?” quizzed the Reverend.

  “Well, Saint Edward did intend on going. He really gave it a lot of thought. But then Sir Larry somehow found out about what was going on and then he saw the king—”

  “Are you telling me that Laurence Olivier portrayed King Edward?”

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  “And why did you two find it so difficult to adhere to my instructions?”

  The Reverend’s right eyebrow arched up along his brow ridge to form an anatomical version of an exclamation mark.

  “Oh, please, Reverend, don’t send me back to the Mucking Marshes Landfill!”

  “I’m considering it, but do go on.”

  “But Reverend, it was most therapeutic for Olivier. Sir Larry said the chance to act again put him in high spirits.”

  “Oh he’s trying to soften me up with a pun, is he?”

  “And he said that it lifted his soul.”

  The Reverend began to guffaw as Bradshaw’s ghost continued with the story.

  “He was so jubilant when he came inside. He said his performance was a merry romp through King Lear, Hamlet, and Henry V. He said that he had reprised many of his favorite roles at the Old Vic. And he even enlisted a little aid from Charles Dickens for directional advice.”

  “Don’t tell me — A Christmas Carol?” the Reverend asked with a groan.

  “Yes, Sir Larry wanted a very dramatic entrance.”

  “Not the ghost appearing at the stroke of midnight at the foot of the bed? That sort of thing?”

  John Bradshaw’s ghost nodded.

  “Well, he got the job done. That’s all that matters. Actually, an audience of one was perfect for him. He does suffer from stage fright so. Anyhow, no worries, a good job all around! But say, what’s this reliquary business they mentioned in The Sun?”

  “The arm of Saint Cyriacus.”

  “Oh yes, the arm of Saint Cyriacus. I remember now. Where did that go off to? I recall Cyriacus’s head is in a reliquary at Santa Maria in Via Lata, in Rome, right?”

  “Yes, you are correct Reverend.”

  “It’s coming back to me. His head turns blood red on his birthday. No, that isn’t right — on the day of his martyrdom. Got it now. So, Bradshaw, whatever happened to this arm? I do recollect it being on the high altar. I confess that I haven’t had much time to pay attention to these things lately. But I do recall seeing it a couple of centuries ago. Wait, that was just about the time — it was your lot that pinched it, wasn’t it Johnny?”

  “No, Reverend, it was Copper-Nosed Harry and his crew that pinched it.”

  “What a bald-face liar you are Johnny. Still trying to point the finger at Henry the VIII and the Reformation for all the looting done by you and Cromwell?”

  “No sir … seriously Reverend, we’d have taken it if it had been about — but it wasn’t.”

  Chapter Ten

  Maeva

  Maeva admitted she had never put together an Excel spread sheet or a PowerPoint presentation, and that she had no secretarial experience whatsoever. In fact, she had never worked a day in her life. But she did say that she would be willing to field calls from clients, keep a journal, and make travel arrangements. More importantly, she had suggested that Wallace take her out so that they might get better acquainted. Ah Maeva, he so delighted in that name. During the night he’d dreamt of her.

  As Wallace recalled, his dream began with him sauntering down a street in Croydon. The sun was out, the birds were chirping, and he had a pink heart-shaped candy box covered in polka dots in his left hand and a bouquet of huge hibiscus flowers in his right. Suddenly a mariachi band, with guitarrón, vihuela, violins, guitars, and a trumpet struck up a polka and began to follow him. Then Butterfield’s suit became a purple mariachi costume, with a sombrero richly embroidered in gold and white polka dots. He was just passing the Mecca Bingo Club on Tamworth Road when the sidewalk became alive with blue hands. Hundreds of them were rising up through the concrete and laying banana peels about. The chocolates and flowers zipped out of Wallace’s hands, and a pair of maracas flashed into their place. The band set up a new rhythm — a samba! Butterfield took up the beat with his maracas and nimbly danced around all of the banana peels.

  Then, the mariachi band’s trumpeter sounded the fanfare to a bullfight. This time two gigantic blue hands emerged on either side of the street. Between them, they held a monstrously big banana peel. The hands proceeded to drop the mammoth banana peel in front of Butterfield with a ceremonial flourish. Wallace couldn’t keep his balance. Slipping and sliding he went down Tamworth Road totally out of control. And then the road opened up into thin air — a void — just blue sky.

  As he began to fall, he managed to reach out and to get hold on something. It was a blade of one of the three large wind turbines atop Strata SE1 apartment complex. Unfortunately for Wallace, the wind began to pick up. Soon, it was blowing a gale. Butterfield couldn’t maintain his grip. He was spun off into the air again. Once more, he began to fall. A roof appeared. Butterfield went crashing through it, falling into an ice skating arena in Brixton. But he didn’t go splat on the ice. No, he landed perfectly and, with a pair of ice skates, proceeded to execute a camel spin. He followed this with a Salchow, a double axel, and a back flip. The crowd of penguins went mad. With so much cheering, Butterfield took a victory lap around the rink, his arms outstretched. Then a blue Zamboni ran over him, embedding him under the ice. It might have gotten worse, but Maeva suddenly appeared above him. She had an acetylene torch and she was wearing protective dark blue welder’s goggles. Soon, Maeva had him thawed out and seated on the ice. She placed a gold medal around his neck, gave him a hug, and then kissed him. All in all, it was not a bad dream. In fact, it was probably the best dream Wallace Butterfield had ever had.

  ***

  The Reverend Poda-Pirudi was again troubled by the lack of communications between himself and the outside world. So, he stuck his head into Bradshaw’s little office and said. “You know it’s been several days since we interviewed Butterfield. He seems to have gone to ground. You’d think he would be excited over his commission. Johnny, get Wallace on the line for me.”

  Obediently, the ghost of John Bradshaw picked up his telephone and dialed the office of Butterfield and Son.

  “Mr. Butterfield? Yes, this is John Bradshaw. The Reverend Poda-Pirudi was wondering if you had a free minute. Oh, very good. I’ll transfer you to him.”

  John Bradshaw’s ghost then handed his phone to the Reverend.

  “Ah Wally, been meaning to speak to you. Thought you needed an explanation for all that bother in the press — the stuff in the tabloids.”

  There was a brief response from Butterfield, which puzzled the Reverend.

  “You haven’t seen it? Well I’m sure that’s for the best. You see, our Dean has had a hard time of it lately — you know, the preparations for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and all. There will be a big shindig here … sixty years as our sovereign. That means lots of ceremony. I’m afraid the stress has been a little too much for him. He has a medical issue, which, as always, the newspapers have blown way out of proportion. He just needs some rest; he’s at a religious retreat regaining his old vigor as we speak. Just wanted you to know that this momentary lapse in our leadership will by no means affect upon our plans concerning the design for a central tower. By the way have you made any progress? I bet you’ve got the whole thing sketched out by now.”

  The Reverend covered the mouthpiece of his phone. Rolling his eyes, he turned to Bradshaw’s ghost. “He’s chattering away like a schoolgirl.”

  “Yes, of cours
e you’ve got to get your office in order first. I do appreciate that. Oh, she does sound like she’s just the woman for the job. I might add that it’s wonderful what you’ve done on the computer so far. Perhaps in a couple of days we should touch base again. Yes, we’ll do that. Oh thank you, that’s very kind of you Wally. I’m sure that the Dean will be so pleased to hear that you wish him well. I’ll pass that on to him. Well, be talking to you. Bye.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi shook his head as he placed the telephone down.

  “I’m afraid this Maeva is going to pose a bit of a challenge to us.”

  “Should I get Sir Isaac?” asked Bradshaw’s ghost.

  “No, let‘s let her play her hand. She may be of some use, unwittingly of course. For now we’d best monitor the situation … wait and see which way it breaks.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The London Eye

  It swam, almost slithered, down the dark channel. Occasionally the light from a street lamp would filter down through a catch basin grating, but beyond that there was no light. The vaulted brickwork overhead prevented that. The creature’s alligator-like head had a pair of eyes that could poke through the murky surface. It knew that there were more storm drains downstream to the river. It had counted them. It had spent considerable time here and liked this place. To the Tiktaalik, it was almost home. It was so quiet and pleasant below the street level. This was a secret layer of London, devoid of hustle and bustle and the throngs of tourists. The shallow fresh water that formed this channel was not unlike that of the Devonian swamps it had grown up in and hunted fish in 375 million years ago. Here too, like in those swamps, there were snags in the flow of water, not from the fallen trunks of giant ferns or the roots of immense club mosses, but from chunks of wood and concrete, soft drink bottles, and candy wrappers. When confronted by these obstacles, the Tiktaalik used its spade-shaped tail and fin-like legs to push its long body through whatever blockage barred its descent to the river.