The Unhappy Medium, page 26
Returning to the table, he sat quietly, happy to take a back seat as the two girls chatted pleasantly away about the pub and life in general. Content that things were working out better than he had dared to imagine, his thoughts drifted off again to the afterlife, his enquiring mind once again trying to match physics with the paranormal and failing miserably .
‘Newton ...’ Viv said nudging him. ‘NEWTON!’
‘Sorry ... what was that?’ said Newton, snapping out of his train of thought.
‘Gabby was just telling us about the history of this pub, weren’t you Gabby.’
‘Yeah Dad, it’s dead interesting,’ said Gabby.
‘Dead is the right word,’ continued Viv. ‘Apparently it’s haunted by a young girl.’
‘I know,’ said Newton before he could stop himself.
‘You know?’ said Viv, surprised. ‘I thought you weren’t into that stuff!’
‘Oh I’m not,’ said Newton evasively, ‘anyway ... go on.’
‘Gabby, tell your dad the story.’
‘Well, there was this girl see, it was in the real olden times. She loved this woodcutter or something. He didn’t love her though, what a jerk! Anyway, he told her to bog off so she killed herself, hung herself from a tree. Broken heart.’
‘Isn’t that sad Newton, don’t you think?’
‘What? Oh yeah, it is,’ said Newton. ‘Poor kid. No wonder she’s hanging around.’
‘They didn’t bury her in the churchyard,’ continued Gabby, ‘because in those days suicide was illegal, so they buried her here.’
‘It’s a bit weird to bury someone in a pub, isn’t it?’ said Newton, looking back at the slab.
‘Wasn’t part of the pub at the time I guess ... it is now though. Cool story, eh?’ said Viv.
‘So it’s haunted then?’ said Newton, half trying to look like his old anti-paranormal self, but gathering information while he did it.
‘Yes, actually it is,’ said Gabby, defiantly. ‘Loads of people see her – there’s a thing on the wall about it, by the toilets.’
‘Is there?’ said Newton, feigning mild interest. ‘Fun story, doubt there’s anything in it though.’
‘Well you would say that,’ said Gabby, as a barmaid arrived and placed three sizable plates before them. ‘Well, Viv thinks it’s cool.’
‘I do,’ said Viv. ‘And I also think this is a rather splendid dinner – a four-roast-potato job!’
‘Great!’ said Newton, who tucked into his lunch in silence as he watched the two women in his life, at least the two nice ones, finally together. Gabby and Viv were chatting like old friends, and another knot on the rope of stress Newton had carried around these past years gently unravelled.
CHAPTER 22 – Smoke and mirror s
Monday found Newton landing at Frankfurt. He took a cab to Heidelberg, checked into his hotel, grabbed a light lunch and then headed purposefully over to LeClarard’s last known address in the old town. He asked a museum official at the front desk if he could look around, and got a cheerful nod in reply.
Sure enough, just as Newton had expected, there was a noticeable astrological theme to the decor. LeClarard had clearly indulged himself around the old place – there were tapestries, sculptures and paintings, all featuring zodiacal symbols and the planets. A stern notice proclaimed a prohibition on photography, so Newton fell back on his faithful old leather notebook, taking notes about the arcane decoration.
Straight away, like any good cryptologist, he was looking around the ornate room for patterns. Newton had always had a certain love for riddles and codes, though often he found the examples in popular books and computer games so laughably easy that he would become angry and impatient with them at an almost indecent speed. However, during the lifetime of LeClarard, cryptology had become an increasingly sophisticated and multilayered art and any puzzle he had left was unlikely to be simple. Still, a cipher had to be capable of translation or it simply wouldn’t have been a cipher at all – there had to be a chink in it somewhere. It seemed clear to Newton that such a vain personality, with an endless appetite for his own self-aggrandisement, would be driven to place some of these clues in plain sight. There would be no sport in total concealment.
Newton walked through the ornate rooms several times until finally, he was drawn to a single wall. It was distinctive mainly because it was so bland – merely an expanse of drab period wallpaper with a few run-of-the-mill oil paintings. There was none of the exotica present in the rest of the collection. The longer Newton scrutinised it, the surer he became that something had been replaced, defaced or obliterated at some point in the past. But what?
Seeing no clues, Newton strolled back towards the entrance and collared the man at the front desk.
‘Excuse me, I wondered if you can help me?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ replied the attendant in near-faultless English. ‘How may I help?’
‘The astrology rooms up at the top.’
‘Ah ya. They are magnificent are they not?’
‘Yes, spectacular,’ said Newton. ‘And that’s just it you see. There’s one wall up there that seems different in style. What’s the story there?’
‘Do you mean the wall at the far end of the building? Ah, you are most observant, sir, ya, it was redecorated, I think in the 1920s. Apparently, there was nothing much there before anyway, except a list of meaningless letters.’
‘Do you know what it said?’
‘No ... but if you wait a second, I think I may be able to give you a picture of the original wall.’
‘Can you?’ said Newton enthusiastically. ‘That would be very helpful.’
‘Helpful?’ asked the attendant, suddenly suspicious of Newton’s angle.
‘Sorry ... interesting, I mean, fascinating,’ said Newton quickly. The official bustled away into a small office and soon emerged waving a photocopy.
‘Here we are. This is an engraving that was made shortly after the astrologer had the place decorated. It was quite sensational at the time of course.’ He handed the image to Newton.
It was not a perfect copy, but then it didn’t need to be. The errant wall was there in all its glory, its decoration being admired by several finely attired wig-bearing dandies, one of whom was almost certainly LeClarard himself. Newton was optimistic that he now had the lead he was looking for – there on the wall were two lines of huge letters.
JLZGCVQUHT
MDCXCIV
‘That’s great!’ said Newton enthusiastically. ‘May I keep this?’
‘Of course, sir. Please.’
Newton thanked the attendant and strolled thoughtfully out onto the street. After finding a cafe, he sat down, ordered a strong coffee and read the letters on the photocopy again.
‘How are you getting on then?’ said Sixsmith, abruptly interrupting Newton’s concentration from the chair opposite.
‘Alex!’ said Newton, glancing quickly around to see if anyone was within earshot. ‘Not here, we’re in public!’
‘I know, naughty, but I promised Jameson and Eric I’d keep an eye on you. Check your luggage, you’ll find my specs – can’t get too far from the old relics, I’m told. So I thought I’d get you to cart me onto the plane. Any developments?’
‘I’m not talking to an empty chair Alex. Heidelberg is pretty but I don’t want to stay in its Baroque nuthouse just yet.’
‘Oh there’s a good trick for that,’ said Alex.
‘There is? Do tell.’
‘Pretend to make a call. Who’s to know that you’re not actually talking to anyone on the old dog and bone.’
‘Clever,’ said Newton, who had been expecting something slightly more paranormal. He pretended to dial and put the phone to his ear.
‘Well?’ said Alex, looking at the menu. ‘Oh look, paprika cream schnitzel, you should try that, delicious! I had that in Nuremberg.’
‘I’m not hungry thanks,’ said Newton impatiently. ‘You wanted to know what’s up so far?’
‘I do.’
‘Well I think I might have got the code.’
‘Really? That was fast, what does it say?’
‘I said I’ve got it, I didn’t say I’d cracked it.’
‘Gotcha,’ said Alex, flipping the menu over, something seen only by Newton and a small boy on a nearby table whose eyes widened into saucers as the stollen fell from his mouth.
‘Nice selection of pastries.’
‘Careful Alex, you’re meant to be off the radar remember, enough of the telekinesis already.’
‘Yes, sorry. Old habits die hard. No bratwurst in Purgatory, as you can imagine – or samosas, pizza, crispy duck or Cornish pasties for that matter. Oh lordy I miss Cornish pasties I can’t tell you ... Sorry, you were saying, the code ...’
‘Yes, here it is.’ Newton discreetly turned the photocopy round until Alex could see it clearly.
‘Well the bottom line looks like a year in Roman numerals.’
‘Yup, my thoughts entirely,’ said Newton into the phone. ‘And it’s a bit of an obvious one as it happens.’
‘It is?’
‘Yup, it’s 1694, the year LeClarard was born.’ Alex thought briefly, mulling the letters.
‘Do we know the exact date of his birth?’
‘Yes, it was 19 February 1694. But the top line is the hard bit – that’s not a Roman number. Even if we crack the top line, then there’s the small issue of what we do with the code once it’s cracked. I’m pretty certain it’s not the number of a locker at Heidelberg station.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Not sure. I’m wondering about all these gizmos he was building leading up to his execution. Must be valuable things, curios and all that. I think I’ll take a return trip to his old house, see what they can tell us. Wanna stay here and have some cake while I find out?’
‘Oh you bastard,’ said Sixsmith, only too aware that he couldn’t. ‘What kind of sadist are you?’
‘Oh you have no idea,’ said Newton, throwing some coins onto the table.
Back at LeClarard’s old house, the attendant was topping up the postcard stand as Newton reappeared.
‘Ah Mein Herr, we are not used to many visitors, especially the same one twice!’
‘Yes sorry,’ said Newton. ‘Quick question about the astrologer that lived here.’
‘LeClarard?’
‘That’s the chap. Did he leave any instruments here after his execution?’
‘Ah yes, and a sore point frankly,’ said the attendant. ‘Telescopes, globes and things ... we would like all that here, of course, it would add so much an increase in visitors I am thinking. Yes I think so.’
‘So where are they now?’
‘The story is that he bequeathed his instruments to the city as an act of atonement for his crimes, so now they’re at the Kurpfälzisches.’
‘Sorry, I’m new here, is that a museum?’
‘Ya – all the town’s finest art is there, it’s on Hauptstrasse, four streets away. You cannot be missing it.’
‘Wonderful. I can’t thank you enough!’ exclaimed Newton, and he positively flew out the old doors and back to the cafe. Alex was having fun with the dumbstruck child on the next table when Newton returned. He was moving a salt cellar around on the table like a Dalek whenever the boy’s parents were looking the other way, leaving the poor boy gesturing wildly and no doubt initiating years of child therapy as he did so.
‘What did I tell you?’ said Newton, but his conversation with the empty chair only made matters worse so, wasting no time, he subtly urged Alex away towards the museum.
******
The Kurpfälzisches turned out to be an imposing Baroque structure in a building called the Palais Morass. Its façade was a dramatic rust and white confection, but Newton was not there for the architecture, and leaving Sixsmith bobbing outside like a party balloon, he dashed through the grand entrance.
Newton, excited as he was, was trying hard not to attract too much attention, so casually he sauntered through the galleries past the archaeology, fine art and ceramics until finally he entered a room packed from end to end with brass instruments. There were telescopes, ornate globes, sextants and astrological calculators. Most of them were from LeClarard’s bequest.
‘This will be the place then,’ said Alex suddenly into Newton’s ear.
‘Jessuuusss Alex, don’t do that.’
‘Sorry old boy, but I think I’d better let you know that the place is going to close in half an hour.’
‘So, what’s the rush? We can always come back tomorrow.’
‘It’s closed tomorrow.’
‘Brilliant, how am I ...’ At that point, a couple strolled quietly through the room and out the other side before Newton could continue. ‘How am I supposed to solve this thing in only 30 minutes?
‘26 minutes,’ corrected Alex helpfully.
Newton quickened his pace as he searched anxiously around the ornate instruments in glass cases, until one caught the corner of his eye. It was a large brass orrery, a clockwork mechanism designed to calculate and display the movements of the planets around the sun. Inscribed on its base – the Roman numeral MDCXCIV, the year of LeClarard’s birth.
Newton’s mind was racing when a distinguished-looking man suddenly appeared from a nearby doorway. ‘Mein Herr? Did you require something please?’ Alex vanished. The museum official took his glasses from his grey-bearded face and cleaned them with a handkerchief before replacing them. ‘You are aware that the museum will be closing shortly?’
‘Yes, so I gather,’ said Newton. ‘What a pity, I have come such a long way to see these exhibits. Do you work here?’
‘Yes Mein Herr,’ he said defensively, ‘I am the curator.’
‘Ah excellent,’ said Newton. ‘Do I have time to ask you a few quick questions?’ The curator looked at his watch and sighed.
‘Ya, I suppose so. You have come from England no?’
‘Yes, London. I’m very interested in these things you see. I’m in that line of business.’ Newton handed the curator his card.
‘Dr Barlow. You are familiar then I think with these instruments. They are beautiful but we find them most peculiar. Many people are not even sure what some of them were for. Maybe you can enlighten me – my only speciality is the modern art. What about this, for instance.’ He pointed to a round brass clock-like device, about the size of a dinner plate, with curious inscriptions.
‘Ah yes,’ said Newton helpfully. ‘That’s an astrolabe, although an unusually complicated one. They were used for working out the positions of the sun and stars in the sky – surprisingly accurate for their time.’
‘And this, we have had no luck with this at all.’ The curator pointed to a device with rings interlocked at different angles.
‘Well, that’s another clever one,’ says Newton. ‘It’s a kind of pocket sundial that can tell the time anywhere in the world. Used a lot during the 18th century.’
‘Goodness, you really do know about these things doctor. I feel glad that you have come.’ The curator’s demeanour softened noticeably.
‘And what about this? We thought it is for tracking comets as they are moving between the stars?’
‘Ah, no,’ said Newton gently, ‘that’s a clockwork potato peeler. See, the potato is placed here and the blades rotate in a clockwise motion. Hey presto, ready to roast. Sorry.’
‘You need not be sorry, Dr Barlow. I am just glad that it has been spotted before we made further fools of ourselves. I am most grateful however for the information about the other instruments. I shall label them accordingly. You have helped me, of course I will be helping you now. Is there something particular you wish to see?’
Newton pointed to LeClarard’s orrery. ‘That’s a fine orrery – is it working?’
‘Oh ya,’ said the curator. ‘It is clockwork and it is kept wound up by someone here. Not sure who but it is not only working, I’m told it is correctly calibrated to the movement of the planets.’
‘Is it now?’ said Newton thoughtfully. ‘Would you mind if I had a look at it? I’d very much like to see it up close, without the glass.’
‘Oooooh. It is most irregular Herr doctor. I am not sure I can ...’
‘I’ve come a very long way to see these things,’ Newton pressed, ‘and as something of a historian it would be lovely to get that proper “close-up” experience.’
‘Well ...’ said the curator, wavering nervously. Then, with theatrical eagerness on Newton’s face urging him on, he fumbled with his keys and the glass doors swung open.
‘Beautiful,’ said Newton leaning in. ‘It’s a remarkable piece.’ He looked over to Sixsmith, who had reappeared to his right, and gestured none too subtly with his eyes.
‘What?’ said Sixsmith, missing the signals spectacularly. Newton persisted. As he made a big show of investigating the large brass ball of the sun, he twitched his head towards the door in frustration.
‘Ah right ... OK! Gotcha,’ said Sixsmith belatedly, and he shot off between the cases and away towards the offices leaving Newton with the curator babbling beside him.
‘Of course, the museum business is not what it was, Dr Barlow,’ he said. ‘The federal government here in Germany is not really interested in the antiquities I am thinking. Even so there is much interference in our work.’
‘Really?’ said Newton absent mindedly, as he scribbled frantically in his notebook. ‘Do go on.’
‘No, I think the budgets will soon be cut.’
‘You don’t say.’ Newton was champing at the bit. He was convinced that the orrery held LeClarard’s relic, and all he needed was a moment alone with the damn thing so he could prove it.
‘No. I could have been earning of the good monies in business I am sure. But my passion was for history, always the history. My father said I was foolish but I followed my heart ... why I ...’ At that point, just before Newton would have happily zapped him with a taser, there was a spectacular crash from a distant room. Like a meerkat reacting to the roar of an approaching lion, the curator stood bolt upright, startled.
