The Unhappy Medium, page 25
‘Which is when? ’
‘19 February – two weeks.’
‘Yikes – no pressure then!’
‘Sorry, but you’ll need to move fast.’
Newton, galvanised by the challenge, rang off, made himself a strong coffee and opened Jameson’s report. Suitably prepared, he began to acquaint himself with his target.
******
Flavian LeClarard was born in Geneva in 1694, the son of a travelling salesman specialising in tapestries and yo-yos. The family led a peculiar life, all the more peculiar after Flavian’s alcoholic mother died in a gambling argument in Limoges. On long, interminable sales trips, his remaining parent had both educated and distracted his son with the help of mouldering books that he picked up cheap on their dreary travels. These volumes, together with the cynical lessons he took from his snake-oil father, marked the boy for life. Spared the usual religious indoctrination of the seminaries and church schools, the young Flavian instead developed a passion for maths and magic. One tome in particular had fired the young lad’s imagination. It was an astrological guide that was near dripping with mildew, its rank pages sodden with the damp of the ages.
On one long sea voyage, Flavian, utterly engrossed, read it cover to cover. As the storms lashed and the sun beat down, the boy had soaked up more and more from the old book until in time, he had become confident in its contents to such a degree that he felt ready for a practical demonstration.
One day, an illiterate old sailor, seeing the boy reading, had asked young Flavian to read it out loud as entertainment. On long voyages the sailor had grown bored and listless, and unable to read himself, was in need of erudition. Sensing the possibilities, this was something that Flavian, already a nasty piece of work, was only too willing to do. Had it been the Bible or a simple storybook, well, then perhaps things would have been all so different. But this was the poor sailor’s first taste of applied superstition and he became very upset, badly troubled by the boy’s many clumsy predictions. As he listened, his old brow became twice as creased as it was already. Totally hexed, for two days the sailor sulked and moped around the grubby merchantmen until finally, in a fit of deep melancholy, he threw himself from the stern .
Far from guilt-tripping the lad, the incident seemed instead to give him something of an adrenalin rush, and empowered by this sick compulsion, he spent many of the following days trying to freak out the rest of the crew. Not surprisingly, father and son were soon forcibly disembarked on the island of Corsica. It was a lucky escape. The LeClarards were but hours away from being murdered by the superstitious crew, who by this time had lost four of their number to fate-related suicide.
The LeClarards languished on the island, the father resorting to gambling and extortion to keep himself and his son in food and lodgings. Soaking up these base lessons, the boy gained a first-class education in the dubious. Armed with low cunning and his self-education in astrology and the sciences, he was fully qualified to begin his career as a mind bender.
He was to fall on these cruelly sharpened wits when in 1714, his father upset a visiting admiral during a game of backgammon and was violently dispatched with a cutlass. Flavian was now all alone in the world, a spotty twenty-year-old psychopath with nothing but a trunk full of books, two yo-yos and no moral compass.
Superstition was then, as it is now, very good business. Just as a newspaper often has an astrology column to beguile the credulous and naive, so it was then on Corsica. Flavian LeClarard hit pay dirt. The previous charlatan on the island had a glowing reputation for prediction, but he failed to see his own embarrassing fate when, with no advance warning, he’d been gored to death by a mountain goat in his bedchamber. It may have been curtains for him (and the goat) but it was a godsend for LeClarard. There was now a frustrated backlog of fee-paying gullibles, all fearful of the future and just waiting for LeClarard. The newly installed astrologer was soon positively wealthy, and thus emboldened, he began to dress the part: velvet cloaks, a pointed juvenile beard and silver-topped cane. Suitably attired, he strutted his way along the seafront at Ajaccio.
But Flavian LeClarard’s youthful inexperience and overconfidence soon proved his undoing when, over-reaching himself, he amplified the animosity between two rival Corsican families into a violent blood feud. Belatedly, after much street fighting, the families realised that the young astrologer had set them one against each other, and in a rare moment of cooperation, they came together looking for revenge. The knives were out .
Flavian escaped the resulting lynch mob with seconds to spare, departing by brigantine to Marseille. He was penniless again, maybe, but he was rich in experience. Falling back on his own dark cunning, he wormed his way up to Paris, acquired a central apartment and began his comeback.
In the capital, LeClarard’s skill for manipulation of the weak-minded pre-revolutionary elite became horribly refined. Soon, the Francs were just pouring in. However, though he earned accolades from his clients, he also fostered an intense jealousy from his rivals. They may have been equally cynical, but they lacked the real killer instinct that LeClarard, master of scams that he was, could rustle up with ease. What started as mere whispers of resentment grew quickly into something far darker, and as things started to get ugly, once again, the trickster found himself escaping the noose by a cat’s whisker.
So began a nomadic existence. From city to city, Flavian LeClarard pushed his luck as far as it would go before escaping, just ahead of the extreme end of customer dissatisfaction.
And during these twelve years of astrological wandering, the astrologer refined his dark influence again and again until, eventually, his twisted artistry could hoodwink even the most sceptical or objective of monarchs. So, trusted by many a ruler who should have known better, LeClarard was able to act as a catalyst in the outbreak of wars and the trigger for violent assassinations and civic catastrophes, all for his own twisted amusement.
Back in his lodgings he would laugh like a filthy drain. Safe in his privacy he would share the joke with none but his young hunchbacked assistant, a ragged simpleton from whom he exacted a fierce if misguided loyalty.
As LeClarard’s dubious reputation grew, so did his ghastly psychosis. He wasn’t motivated by his growing wealth – now only catastrophe gave him any real sense of satisfaction. But even LeClarard knew that nothing could last forever, and as he reached the height of his cruel influence, he began to plan for his own inevitable comeuppance. Perhaps his death at the hands of an angry client had somehow always been part of the plan, like a serial murderer who wants to be caught.
Whatever the case, there were indications in Jameson’s file that in 1746, Flavian LeClarard had begun to research the afterlife, cryptology and engineering. He must have been planning a venture outside of his normal activities, but it was unclear what. Maybe this project, whatever it was, was not complete upon his death in 1752, in an execution that was frankly well overdue.
Chancing his arm, LeClarard had recently caused a costly war between Franconia and Saxony, but this time he was seemingly reluctant to bolt. In chains, he was brought before a tribunal and made to explain himself. He put up a good defence – some said it was brilliant – but with the livid representatives of both warring factions sitting in front of him, their knives all sharpened and pointy, it was never going to wash. After a short and lively hearing, Flavian LeClarard was taken out to a gibbet and hanged in front of an enthusiastic local audience. As was the fashion at the time, his corpse was locked in a cage and strung up as food for the crows and kites, and while his forlorn assistant watched this supercharged decomposition from the ground below, LeClarard faded, peck-by-gruesome-peck, from the historical record.
Except – he didn’t. Not entirely. Somehow, he was getting back for day trips and the chaps in Purgatory were at their wits end trying to find out how. Apparently, he’d just go walkies and then, clearly having enjoyed himself enormously, return to his confinement, a huge smirk playing on his malevolent face. Stubbornly, he refused to play ball with Eric the Greek and his questioners. Enjoying the game, he’d bait the Purgatorians with riddles and rhymes until Eric, possibly the worst interrogator in human history, was close to tears – that much was clear from the transcripts.
Reading the report, Newton noted that certain cryptic phrases popped up regularly, such little snippets as ‘hidden in the spheres’ or ‘betwix the stars’. It was obvious the astrologer was enjoying flirting around the edges of some disguised revelation. Needless to say, it didn’t help that Eric was so emotional; the interrogation transcripts made for toe-curling reading. Newton wondered why, given that Purgatory was full of investigative geniuses like Arthur Conan Doyle, Carl Sagan and Alan Turing, the council had opted for the weepy Eric to crack the cases.
Newton then spent a frustrating hour or so surfing the net without finding any useful leads until, eventually, he stumbled upon a brief reference to LeClarard in a report from 1756. This indicated that he had finally settled at a fixed address by the time of his trial and there it was – a central building in downtown Heidelberg. What’s more, it was now a publically accessible museum.
Newton booked a flight to Germany.
CHAPTER 21 – Three ladie s
Viv finally rolled up, characteristically late and windswept, at 7pm. Enthusiastically in love, she and Newton treated themselves to a vast, almost biblical curry, but it left both of them unable to do much when the lights went out except gasp like freshly caught fish.
With the first meeting between Viv and Gabby bearing down on them like a train, the evening shot past like a lunchtime, and morning found them fuzzy-headed and silent, stumbling bleary-eyed out to the car. Viv, despite her obvious anxiety, was so taken back by the performance of the mighty Citroën that she managed to forget the whole thing until they were coming off the slip road into Cambridge. As the moment got closer, she became distressingly unlike her usual casual self, causing Newton to nurse an awful guilt for putting someone so laid-back in a position that was, if anything, bolt upright.
Newton kept the car as quiet as he could as they nosed up to Rowena’s house, but even then it was hard to hide the noisy beast, and faces began peering out from the neighbouring windows. Leaving a pale and subdued Viv in the car, he walked up to the door, took a deep breath and pressed the bell. It felt horribly like detonating an explosive vest. Rowena, who possessed a bitch’s instinct for other people’s awkwardness, looked straight past Newton to the Citroën and fixed Viv with a hunter’s eye. Viv, with nowhere to hide, squirmed like a Taliban at the end of a laser designator and slid downwards in the passenger seat.
‘Is that ... her?’ Rowena asked, with a barely concealed cocktail of malice and pity.
‘That ... err well yes ... that’s Viv,’ Newton mumbled to his shoes, and he found himself pulling one of the expressions that had made Mr Bean so popular. Rowena, aware that public conventions, fair play and common human decency were blocking her instinctive urge to eviscerate them both with a scythe, merely raised a patronising though perfectly made up eyebrow and called up to their daughter.
‘You’ll be back ... when?’ asked Rowena, as Gabby shuffled past them and out to the pavement .
‘Is six OK?’ offered Newton, shrugging.
‘Six? Well I suppose so. No later though, she’s got school in the morning.’
‘Do you have to talk about me like I’m not here?’ huffed Gabby, exaggerating her natural angst.
‘She’s being very difficult,’ said Rowena, ignoring the substance of Gabby’s comment utterly. ‘Perhaps you and your new girlfriend will have more luck communicating with her than I do.’ With that, she closed the door smartly in Newton’s face.
‘Well, bye then,’ said Newton to the doorknocker. He turned to his daughter. ‘Hope you don’t mind meeting Viv today – she’s very nice, you’ll really like her.’
‘And if I don’t ... what then?’ said Gabby, sneering.
‘Err well, oh I’m sure you will,’ said Newton, fully aware that Rowena was probably watching and waiting for a good view of Viv from the window as they both climbed into the car. Like drug mules passing through customs, they set off slowly past the house and away.
‘Hi, I’m Viv,’ said Viv abruptly, opting for a buoyant ‘who cares’ approach. Gabby, determined to make them both pay for every inch of familiarity, opted for the ‘who gives a shit’ approach and grunted a minimal ‘hi’ in return.
‘You must be Gabby. Newton’s told me so much about you.’ Gabby, Newton could sense, was in a quandary. She was deeply uncomfortable, but since the previous ghost-walking weekend had left her considerably more at ease with her father, she didn’t want to be difficult. Then again, in typical teenage daughter style, she also didn’t know how to be that nice and relaxed either. So the three of them were silent for a while as the air chilled, defrosted, chilled, super-chilled and then eventually, thankfully, defrosted once again. This time the freeze melted a tad more permanently.
‘Dad says you live in Greenwich – that sounds fun,’ said Gabby unexpectedly. Newton and Viv exchanged an expression of surprise and relief.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Viv. ‘Have you ever been down there?’
‘My friend said it’s cool – she says the market is wicked.’
‘The market’s great. You must come down and see it some time. Would you like that?’ said Viv, desperate to build a bridge.
‘Maybe,’ said Gabby, who then left another silence, less awkward than before but still a silence none the less. ‘Where are we going?’ she said, after a few long minutes.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Newton. ‘Just thought we’d get out there and nose around a bit. Get some lunch, you know.’
‘Can we go to a pub?’ said Gabby.
‘Sure, let’s see if we can find one we all like,’ said Newton.
‘Actually there’s one I’ve been told is really good,’ said Gabby, leaning forward into the space between the two front seats. ‘It’s called The Fensman, somewhere off the main road to Huntington. It’s meant to be the oldest pub in the country. Can we go there?’
‘Of course we can,’ said Newton. He and Viv smiled discreetly to each other, the pressure lifting enough to give them the freedom to relax, if only a little. ‘There’s a road map under my seat – do you wanna see if you can find it? We’re coming up to the Huntington road now.’
‘Cool,’ said Gabby, ‘does that mean you can go fast again?’
‘Oh ... I don’t know ...’
‘Oh go on, Newton,’ said Viv, ‘let’s do it!’ She looked back conspiratorially to Gabby, who let down her guard and returned a grin.
‘OK,’ said Newton, with exaggerated nonchalance, ‘if that’s what you want.’ As soon as the way was clear, he put his foot down. The old car hesitated for a second, almost as if it was unsure whether it had permission to let rip, but then, with a glorious throaty roar, the engine once again unleashed its alter ego. The three of them let out loud, involuntary yelps as, somewhere between fear and delight, they hammered up the dual carriageway, halfway to the land speed record. Viv was holding onto the upholstery for dear life, while Gabby was pinned back on the rear seat where she was giggling.
‘This is just soooooooooooo coool!’
‘Wow!’ mouthed Viv above the engine. ‘Just ... wow!’ Nearing the motorway exit, Newton slowed down and they took a more moderate pace towards the pub.
Many pubs claim to be old, even the new ones, but The Fensman was old, really old. Records state that it was serving alcoholic brews back in the Dark Ages. It had been refurbished once or twice since then and now, finally, also served food. Newton left Viv and Gabby chatting awkwardly at a table while he went to the bar to order lunch.
As he approached the crowded bar, he was obliged to step out of the way of a rushing barmaid, and as he did so, he inadvertently placed his foot on a rectangular slab of stone. The slab was sitting plumb in the middle of the pub’s polished wooden floorboards. He stood there for a second or two, his right foot on what he was about to find out was a grave. Once again, there was that odd sensation deep in his brain and a weird coldness, seeping over him like chilled treacle. As the hair prickled at the nape of his neck, he cast his eyes quickly around the bar. Eventually, in a space between the regulars and the tourists, he saw her – a pale young girl, her only clothing a simple off-white dress of coarsely woven linen, the edges ragged and torn. The girl returned Newton’s stunned gaze with impossibly huge, tear-filled eyes, her tiny hands clinging in desperation to a straggly bouquet of dead wild flowers. Newton swallowed. He knew in a heartbeat that she was a ghost and he stared back at her sad face with incredulity. Then, looking down again at the stone slab beneath him, he finally made the connection. The poor girl, it was her grave. With something of a hop, he jumped back from the stone, an odd sense of intrusion and disrespect washing over him. In doing so, Newton also jogged a passing drinker who, elbowed unexpectedly in his ribcage, spilled a sizable amount of his ale. He responded with a well-seasoned curse. With the connection broken, the girl abruptly vanished, and Newton, seconds from a bar fight, rushed quickly to apologise.
‘Sorry, oh God sorry, please ... let me buy you a new pint.’
‘No problem mate,’ said the man, who clearly thought it was a problem, possibly of epic proportions, but to Newton’s relief he opted to merely walk away slinging ‘arsehole’ glances back at Newton as he sat down with his sullen family.
Keen to experiment, Newton placed his pointy black shoe back on the stone. Sure enough, the poor girl was there again. He was astonished. So were Gabby and Viv, watching Newton from their table as he placed his foot on and off the slab in some peculiar new variant of the hokey cokey. Finally, Newton realised they were watching him and grinning awkwardly, he slinked off to the bar to belatedly order the food.
