The Uncanny, page 22
And so, in the compound in Argentina, he had carried out his experiments in the jungle. Dissolving bits of the blue stone in water, completing the elixir by murdering his children for their blood. In this mixture, he had bathed himself every six months. Indeed, judging by the looks of him, he had somehow continued to feed the hungry stone, even after Harper had discovered him and he had burned the compound—and his children—to the ground. Using charisma and cunning, Iago had somehow kept the children’s blood flowing for the last twenty-five years.
But finding the blood he needed—that was only half his problem wasn’t it? There was still the difficulty of the stone itself, the crystal. As the monk had warned, the stone would not last forever. Each application required a bit of it to be dissolved. Iago knew he would eventually use up his Moroccan supply. And so far, apparently, he had been unable to analyze the components of the thing or reproduce the process by which it was made. Ultimately he was going to have to figure out how to create the stone for himself. And he would have to do it before the lines of discoloration began to appear on the backs of his own hands, before he, like William and Anselm and the monk of Belham Abbey, suffered the agonies of living decay.
And that’s where the trail of ghost stories had come in. Twenty years ago. After the destruction of the compound in Argentina. After five years in exile. “In a little place off the Edgware Road,” as he had told her. Somehow, something had led Iago to “Black Annie.” Something had led him to connect that story with “The Alchemist’s Castle,” which linked it to the Rhinehart triptych, and with “Young William,” which linked all the others to the monk’s confession.
And it was the confession, it was surely that, which had begun his twenty-year search for the triptych itself.
Because when he read the monk’s confession, he had noticed—as Harper had noticed—the monk’s claim that he had recorded the formula for the stone in his document. But if that was true, then where had he recorded it? It was not in the words. It appeared nowhere in M. R. James’s translation. Therefore the scribe must have encoded the formula into the illuminations, the pictures. Which were destroyed when the British Library was bombed in 1941.
But which—possibly, even probably—had served as the inspiration for the Rhinehart triptych.
This was the ultimate message of the story trail, of its convoluted chain connecting the Belham monk’s confession to the Rhinehart work. Because if the Rhinehart work was based on the confession, then the triptych was not—as Iago clearly believed it was not—a depiction of the three magi visiting the Madonna and child. No. It showed instead the three conspirators meeting Annie in the woods to perform their sacrifice.
And if Rhinehart had copied the pictures from the Belham manuscript, he might also, knowingly or unknowingly, have copied the coded instructions for the making of the crystal.
He who has eyes to see, let him see.
For years, anyway, an oral legend of some kind had surrounded the triptych with an aura of mystery. The Nazi magicians—those mad black artists who hung around with all the other madmen of the Third Reich—had clearly known there was some sort of power in the paintings, some valuable secret that needed to be brought out. They had been unable to find it, unable to crack the code, because no one had known what to look for.
Until Iago. Until now.
What had led him to it? she wondered, as the darkness drew in before her. What had happened in his “little place off the Edgware Road,” that had led him to “Black Annie” and the other tales? The connections weren’t obvious, they weren’t easy to make. How had he found them, how had he even known to look? They were important questions because—from the moment Storm had read the story at the party—she had become aware of the uncanny aura of coincidence and destiny that hung over the whole affair. And if she could figure out how it had got started, she might be able to deduce the shape of it. She might be able to seize control of events, or at least outrace Iago to their conclusion.
Already, some possible answers were beginning to form in her mind. But for now …
For now, she had a plan to draw Iago into the open once again. A plan she had formulated when she was out by the standing stones with Dr. Mormo. She knew there was only one way to do it. There was only one piece of bait that was certain to work. And this time, if he rose to that bait, she would be ready for him. She would bring her quarter-century hunt to a close right away.
She continued to stand there, continued to send up plumes and tendrils of smoke from her skull pipe. Bernard went on clicking away at his computer solitaire. Storm went on drumming his fingers on the draftsman’s table. Sophia went on fidgeting nervously by the fire.
And then the phone rang.
Harper turned around. The others froze. The double chirp of the phone sounded again as Harper hobbled across the carpet to the stand beside Bernard’s desk.
She lifted the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Harper.” She recognized the harsh croak at once, the warlock’s voice. “It’s Mormo.”
“Jervis,” she said dryly. “How good of you to ring.”
“Never mind that. I’ve got it.”
Harper felt her heart hitch. She swallowed, said nothing.
“It wasn’t easy either, let me tell you. The competition’s stiff.”
“But you’ve got it in your possession now?” said Harper.
“Come after full dark,” the warlock went on. “And make bloody well sure you’re not followed.”
There was a click, and he was gone.
Harper laid the receiver down slowly. She raised her eyes to the steady gazes of the others.
“He’s got it,” she said.
She heard Storm and Bernard and Sophia all let their breath out at once. She tipped the stem of her pipe at them.
“Tonight, after full dark, Bernard and I will go to Lonsdale Square.”
Storm curled his fingers into a fist, thumped it softly on the tabletop. “What about me?” he said.
Harper turned her head to look first at him, then at Sophia.
“You have another job,” she said. She sighed. “Before we can get to the end of this business, it’s necessary for us to get to the beginning of it. And I have reason to believe that that involves the suicide of Ann Endering.”
“My mother?” Sophia said. “What has she got to do with it?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” Harper told her. “But it’s possible your father does.”
Sophia drew back, drew erect, stared at her.
“My friends,” said Harper slowly, “I’m afraid I must ask you to go out to Belham Grange.”
2
Dr. Mormo hung up the phone. He sat there on the floor, disgruntled. His round, bloated face was pale. His round, bloated belly, under a sweat-stained shirt of shiny gold, was gurling ominously. The trouble with working for the devil, he reflected bitterly, is that you get paid the wages of sin.
He sat cross-legged. His black pentagram banner was spread out on the carpet before him. His black candles were lit, the low flames wavery. A stuffed goat’s head sat to one side of him, its glass eyes flickering with the light.
And between them, in the center of the pentagram, sat the Madonna.
The panel was in a box, the box was standing open. The candlelight played over the features of the virgin, spread into Rhinehart’s tangled brown background and breathed it to tenebrous life. The tubby warlock brooded over the picture gloomily.
Mary was in the winter woods. She was down on one knee, clasping her hands together. She was clothed in drapery of royal blue, which set her off from the stark snarl of lifeless branchwork all around her, and from the great, twisted dead oak that hung over her, like threatening doom. Her face was round, fleshy, Bavarian, a peasant’s face, but with pale eyes mystic and tender. She had a lovely, distant smile.
Looked more like a fairy-tale princess than the Queen of Heaven, Mormo thought. Looked more like Snow White in the Disney movie than anything.
He could hardly wait to get the holy bitch out of here.
He reached up, grabbed hold of the bedstead. Grunting, he hoisted himself off the floor. “Too old for this,” he grumbled miserably. His bare feet white beneath the cuffs of his dirty corduroys, he padded to the bedroom door and out into the hall.
The house was dark around him, all the windows shuttered against the rain and the fading light. But Mormo knew the place, one of his more familiar hideaways. He trudged surely through the shadows to the top of the stairs. The floorboards creaking in the surrounding silence. The old man grumbling. All this intrigue. All this danger, he thought. He was way too old. It was way past time to get out of the business, retire, settle down. Get himself a place in Cornwall by the sea. Gather a cozy little coven about him. Spend his declining years in quiet contemplation and blood sacrifice, appeasing the dark powers in hope of the life to come.
He started heavily down the stairs. Well, he thought, tonight should pave the way, provide him with a nice little nest egg. Assuming it didn’t kill him first.
He came slowly down into the foyer. Caught an obscure glimpse of himself in the mirror there. Poor old bloke with not a true friend left to him, he thought. Hard done by. Everyone on him and on him. Difficult to know who to be most afraid of at this point, really. The old Nazi who’d passed him the panel, there was a right spooky loon if ever there was one. Going on and on about death and culture. “It takes a mountain of corpses to make a Madonna,” he’d said. His eyes all shiny. Mormo could hardly wait to get the hell away from the lunatic.
But the Nazi had been more terrified even than he was. He knew he’d put his tit in the wringer when he’d phoned Sotheby’s to bid on The Magi. He knew Iago would cotton onto him, come after him double quick and no mistake. And now poor old Dr. M had that to worry about too, didn’t he? Iago. He shivered.
He continued his trek, through the darkened sitting room towards the kitchen. No noise anywhere besides his footsteps and his sighs.
He didn’t want to think about what Iago would do to him if he caught him at this. He didn’t want to think about it for a minute. But the truth was: Iago—he would do for him sooner or later anyway, wouldn’t he? At the end of the day, there was no percentage at all in dealing with a man like that.
Which left him with Harper, the devil forgive him. Fancy him making arrangements with that sanctimonious old cow after all these years. It was against his religion, no question. But there he was at the end of the day. When he’d balanced all, she was his safest bet. He could evade Iago if he had to. Been doing it on and off for years, hadn’t he? Master of shrouding himself in darkness, that’s what he was. Enough safe houses to become an estate agent and all the powers of Hell on his side.
But Harper. Now she had connections. She seemed to be able to find him wherever he was. Turn up right in front of him like Hecate herself, she did. And she’d set the Yard on him too. She’d said so. At the kitchen doorway, he shivered again, grumbled again: “Too old.” Too old for prison, that was for bloody sure.
He switched on the kitchen light. The fluorescents crackled, flickered on. The old warlock blinked against the sudden brightness. The linoleum tiles felt cold against his bare soles.
This was why he’d always favored this house: the kitchen. A nice big one. Nice big larder behind the door to his left. Nice big fridge, lots of worktop space round the basin. Dr. Mormo liked to cook. It relaxed him. And he could do with a bit of relaxation just now.
He opened the fridge and stuck his head in. American-made—you could practically walk right into it if you had a mind. It was comforting just to hear the hum of it. The place was too quiet, almost creepy here all by himself.
He gathered up the onions, tomatoes, scallions, prosciutto. Brought the whole armload to the worktop and laid it out beside the cutting board.
He rummaged through the cutlery drawer, removed a formidable cook’s knife. Lifted it, held it expertly to the light to make sure it was clean. It was plenty clean. The stainless steel was gleaming.
Iago’s grinning face was reflected on the blade.
Mormo saw it, let out a weak mewl of terror. The knife fell from his slack fingers as he spun to face the open larder door. He felt his legs turning to water, his bowels turning to water. He felt the front of his corduroys going hot and damp.
The shiny knife fell down and down to the floor, turning and turning in the air as it fell. The reflected wedge of that cruel, leering countenance flashed on the blade, disappeared, and flashed again as the knife spun.
The thud of the steel on the linoleum was very loud in the silent house.
3
“I won’t do it!”
Sophia had, when she meant to, a voice that slashed like a saber. She had seen men, at the sound of it, look down appalled as if to find themselves cut off at the knees. It was that voice she used now on Richard Storm, who was crouching in her kitchen, rummaging through her small refrigerator.
“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. It’s unnecessary. It’s cruel and stupid. And, in any case, it isn’t going to happen. I won’t go.”
“Let me ask you something,” Storm said, not looking up. “Is there, like, some big warehouse or something in this country where you guys keep the other halves of all your refrigerators?”
Sophia felt the flush of anger in her cheeks. “Don’t do that. Don’t just dismiss what I say to you.”
“I’m not dismissing you,” Storm answered mildly, reaching in deep. “I’m ignoring you. Which is hard because you’re so beautiful and I love you like music. And I only want to do things that make you sing tra-la and dance around in the fields throwing daisies everywhere. But you asked me to help you, and I think you ought to reconsider.”
“Well, I won’t,” she said. She crossed her arms on her chest.
“Can I eat this?” He had found a plate of cold chicken, brought it out.
She had swung away, and barely glanced at him. “Go ahead.”
Storm stood up, flinching, working out the kinks in his knees. He came out through the open doorway into the dining room, out to the long table. She was standing on the other side of it, against the curtained doors to the balcony. Seething, flashing her anger at him.
“I mean it,” she said. “I won’t.”
“Hey, what do you expect me to do?” he said. “Throw you over my shoulder and carry you out there? It’d be fun, but I don’t need the hernia.” He set the plate down, started to undo the plastic wrap that covered it.
“I think your friend Harper is a nutter,” said Sophia.
Storm laughed.
“I think she’s playing some sort of ridiculous game. Whatever conspiracy theory she’s come up with, I’m sure my mother could have had nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah, Harper’s a kook all right, no question. Except everything she says always turns out to be true. You don’t have any Coke or anything …?”
The question broke her chain of thought. She massaged her forehead. “I don’t know. No. There’s some sparkling water in the cabinet left of the basin.”
But Storm remained where he was another second or two, rubbing his arm, puffing his cheeks. Tired. She noticed now he looked terribly tired. The rings deep under his melancholy eyes. The rugged face puffy and slack She felt herself softening towards him—which was irritating, because she found that kept on happening: whatever he said, she was always feeling herself soften towards him sooner or later. It was all that naked affection he threw at her. The goofy American earnestness. Even the fact that he did not react to her wrath in the manner to which she was accustomed was bizarrely endearing.
“Are you feeling all right?” she found herself asking as he wandered back into the kitchen. “You look tired.”
He didn’t answer her. He was opening the cabinet.
“You mustn’t let that old woman run you ragged with her nonsense.”
“At my advanced age, you mean.” He was reaching up for the water bottle now. “Hey, maybe you’re just embarrassed to have your dad see you’re dating an old man.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re not an old man. I like how old you are.”
“Or that I have no culture.”
“Well. Never mind,” said Sophia. “You have many other lovely qualities.”
Storm laughed again, shaking his head. Looked at her like … like she didn’t know what. The man had absolutely no rein on his warmth at all. “I really do love you,” he told her. “I think you’re the greatest.”
She forced herself not to smile. “Well, you do. And I’d be proud to introduce you to anyone.”
“Gah.”
“Well, I would. You know perfectly well it isn’t that.”
“I need an opener for this.”
“It’s in the—”
“Oh, wait, I got it,” he said, pulling a drawer open. “Somebody ought to break the good news to these jokers about the twist-off cap.”
She watched him as he ambled back towards her, swigging from the bottle. Watched him with the first, faint, frightening realization of what he meant to her, of the power she had somehow given him. At first she had thought him just silly—a shallow American. And, well, he was. But she had come to understand that that American shallowness ran very deep. He knew how to overlook things. Like her history. Like her problems in bed. Like all her terrible character flaws. And she saw now that she had come to rely on that.
She was thoroughly dismayed to hear the tone of appeal in her voice when she spoke again.
“My mother didn’t do anything wrong, Richard,” she said.
Storm only shrugged, which made her go sour inside. He sat down at the table. Pulled the plate to him. Didn’t look at her. Pulled the salt shaker to him.
“Oh, you can’t eat that with your fingers,” she muttered. She came around the table to the tall sideboard, pulled a knife and fork from one drawer, a linen napkin from another.
Storm was already tearing into a slice of breast, wrestling the meat off with tooth and claw. But he took the silverware from her without a word. Silently put the napkin on his lap. Salted the chicken again and attacked it this time with the fork and knife.
