The Parliament of Blood (2 page)

Thoughts of Sir William reminded George that his superior was certainly expecting George to attend the Unwrapping. But the most compelling reason, George knew (though he scarcely even dared admit it to himself), was that Miss Elizabeth Oldfield would also be there. George had first met Liz when she returned his wallet – the wallet that Eddie had stolen. And before long they had all of them – George, Liz, Eddie and Sir William – been caught up in the devilish plans of a madman.

‘Are you ready for our evening's entertainment, young man?'

Sir William's voice brought George back to the present with a jolt. The elderly man was standing beside him, his shock of white hair erupting enthusiastically from his head. He was vigorously polishing his spectacles on a handkerchief. George put the invitation card back into his pocket, and closed the large notebook where he had been describing and sketching several unidentified items in the archive.

‘Of course,' George said. ‘I'm looking forward to it.'

As they made their way up the wide, stone staircase that led to the Egyptian Rooms, George realised that the invitation was considerably more of a privilege than he had imagined. Sir William seemed unperturbed by the number of people. Men in dark suits and women in long dresses and expensive jewellery conspired to make George feel rather under-dressed.

He ran his hand through his tangle of curly brown hair and tried to look inconspicuous. A man with an impressive handlebar moustache pushed past impatiently, a stick-thin woman with pinched, angular features followed in his wake. She paused just long enough to smile an apology at George. Or perhaps it was sympathy.

‘Everyone is in such a rush these days,' Sir William said. ‘But there's really no need to hurry. Brinson won't start without me.'

‘Is he a friend? A colleague?'

‘Good gracious no,' the older man announced loudly. ‘Can't stand the fellow.'

‘Then why would he wait for you?'

They reached the top of the stairs, and found themselves at the back of a short queue of people waiting to move on. Sir William paused to take a deep breath before he answered. ‘Because it's my mummy he's unwrapping,' he told George. ‘That's why.'

There were two men at the door checking invitations. Sir William produced his crumpled invitation and waved it
at one of the men, barely turning to look. George showed his own invitation to the other man at the door.

‘Thank you, sir,' the man said. ‘Professor Brinson will be starting very soon now, I believe.'

Normally, there were display cases arranged down the middle of the large room where George found himself. For this evening, they had been moved to make space for a dais to be set up at the far end, and the guests to gather in the main part of the room. Being quite tall, George could see over the assembled guests that on the dais there was a sarcophagus. It was raised on trestles and George could see that the top of the gold, coffin-shaped box was sculpted into the form of a figure.

‘Impressive,' he said out loud.

Beside him, Sir William sniffed. ‘Rather indifferent, actually. But still a mistake. A violation.'

‘You don't think Brinson should unwrap the mummy?'

‘I do not,' Sir William said. ‘Mummies have been unwrapped before, and by better men than Brinson, though I would always dispute the science of destroying that which one is charged with preserving. The only thing Brinson hopes to achieve by this evening's theatrics is his own aggrandisement.' Sir William turned to smile at George. ‘But I have said my piece, for all the good it has done.'

‘You said it was your mummy,' George reminded him.

‘From the Department,' Sir William said. ‘Been in the collection almost since Xavier Hemming established it. One of our oldest unclassified artefacts.'

‘And why is it unclassified?'

Sir William shrugged. ‘No idea. Perhaps Hemming just fancied having a mummy in the collection when he originally set it up. Who knows? Something he acquired perhaps and never passed on to another department. He was a formidable collector, you know. Maybe we should hunt around for another one after this evening's over.'

‘Did you not give permission for it to be unwrapped?' George wondered.

‘Overruled,' Sir William said. ‘By some idiot from the Royal Society.' He gave a heavy sigh. ‘At least I managed to persuade that fool Brinson to photograph … Ah,' he broke off. ‘Here he is now.'

An insincere smile appeared on Sir William's face as a rather short, stout man pushed towards them through the mingling guests. He had a round red face, and dabbed at his damp forehead with a grubby handkerchief. In his other hand he held a glass of red wine.

‘Sir William, thank goodness.' The man's voice was nasal and almost squeaky with nerves. ‘Thank goodness,' he said again.

Sir William reached out for the wine glass. ‘For me? How very kind, Professor.'

Professor Brinson hastily moved the glass out of Sir William's reach. ‘Oh there is refreshment on the table over there.' He nodded into the distance. ‘Have you seen Denning?'

‘Denning?'

‘Photographer. Dratted man's not turned up. You spoke
to him after this afternoon's session. Did he say where he was off to? What his plans were? When he'd be back?'

‘He did mention something about visiting a public house,' Sir William said. His mouth twitched slightly, and George guessed he was trying not to smile.

‘A public house!' Brinson squeaked. His face seemed to grow even more red. ‘Oh good grief. He's probably lying drunk in a gutter, or been arrested on a charge of being disorderly.'

‘I'm sure he will turn up in his own good time,' Sir William said. ‘He seemed to know his business.'

‘Yes, well, I hope so.' Brinson had his handkerchief out again. ‘Oh goodness, there's Sir Harrison Judd, please excuse me.' He thrust his way into a group of people nearby, and barrelled through towards a tall military-looking gentleman talking loudly in another part of the room.

‘We are not, it seems, as important to Professor Brinson as the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,' Sir William said to George. ‘Perhaps we should be grateful for small mercies. Now then, let's find that wine, shall we?'

The flow of people into the room had all but stopped. George and Sir William helped themselves to a glass of red wine each from the table and made their way back through the assembled guests to a space close to the dais where they would have a good view. But George's attention was focused on the door, waiting for Liz to arrive. Or perhaps she was already here. He looked round, hoping to catch sight of his friend.

‘That's Lord Ruthven from the Royal Society,' Sir
William said, pointing out a pale, gaunt figure standing with a group of others nearby. ‘He's the chap who eventually insisted I hand over the mummy. Why Brinson couldn't use some minor character from the Egyptian Department's own collection I don't know.' He took a sip of wine, looking round with interest. ‘And unless I'm mistaken, that's the Prime Minister's special adviser, what's his name?' Sir William's forehead creased as he tried to remember. ‘Bradford? Barford? Something like that.'

But George was not listening. His attention had been caught by another figure in the crowd. A woman. She was standing alone, close to the door, wearing a deep red velvet dress that seemed to cling to her body, the neck line plunging daringly low. Her black hair was tied up intricately and for a moment her dark eyes met George's across the room.

Then someone moved in between them, and he lost sight of her. ‘Who is that?' he said out loud.

‘Someone important, I'll be bound,' Sir William said, glancing without interest in the direction in which George was still staring. ‘A gathering of the great and the good. Well,' he sniffed, ‘the great anyway.'

Intrigued and captivated by the glimpse of the beautiful woman, George was edging away towards the door. ‘I'll just go and see,' he said.

Sir William sipped at his wine. ‘Don't be long,' he cautioned. ‘Expect Brinson will give up on his photographer soon and start anyway.'

There was a general movement towards the dais, and
George found he was pushing against the tide of people. ‘Excuse me,' he muttered as he collided with a tall woman.

‘Excuse
me
, George Archer,' the woman said, gently catching his arm.

George paused, all thoughts of finding the lady in red suddenly gone. ‘Liz?'

‘Don't tell me you were looking for someone else?' she joked.

‘You look wonderful,' George said quickly, anxious to change the subject. But it was true. Elizabeth Oldfield was wearing a pale green dress that was distinctly more modest than the scarlet dress that had recently attracted George's interest. But her beauty was undeniable, with her lively face, fair hair, and cat-like green eyes.

‘I do hope I haven't missed everything,' she was saying. ‘I had the devil of a job to persuade Father I should come. I think he believed it was some sort of performance – you know how he cannot abide the theatre.'

George did indeed. He also knew that Liz was of a very different opinion on the subject. Her greatest ambition was to be an actress. But her frail, elderly father the Reverend Oldfield could not be more opposed to the theatre and all the sin – as he saw it – that was bound up with the profession of acting. So Liz was forced to sneak out to the theatre in secret. She was a member of a local acting company where she helped as much as her stolen time would allow. Which was, George knew, little enough. But she never complained at having to look after the old man.
She never gave any sign that it was a chore rather than her devoted duty.

He smiled at the thought, and found that Liz was smiling back at him. ‘I said, how is Eddie?' There was a hint of censure in her voice – she knew he had not been listening.

‘Sorry. He is doing well, I think. School has been a bit of a shock to the lad.'

‘And I imagine that Eddie has been a shock to the school.'

George laughed. ‘I imagine so. He is rather older than most of the children there. But from what little Eddie tells me of what goes on, it sounds as if he is doing well.'

‘Perhaps he is a reformed character,' Liz suggested.

George nodded. ‘Perhaps he is.'

Any further discussion of Eddie's progress from proven sinner to possible saint was cut short by a commotion at the door behind them. There were few people now at the back of the room as everyone pushed forwards to try to get a better sight of the events soon to unfold on the raised dais. So George and Liz were afforded a good view of the man arguing loudly with the two Museum staff at the door as he struggled to get past.

‘I tell you I
do
have an invitation,' the man stormed. His face was bloodless with anger.

‘Then perhaps I can see it, sir,' the larger of the two Museum men asked.

‘I had it just a moment ago, I know I did.' The man was patting his pockets. He was tall and slim with handsome
features, slicked-back dark hair, and dressed in an immaculate suit that looked decidedly expensive. ‘Do you know who I am?' he demanded of the men blocking his way. ‘This is intolerable.'

‘Your invitation, sir,' the second doorman said calmly. ‘No one is permitted inside without an invitation from Professor Brinson.'

Liz's voice was hushed with awe. ‘I know who he is,' she said to George. ‘Don't you see – it's Henry Malvern.'

The name meant nothing to George and he shook his head. As the man continued to argue, without effect, another smaller figure in a rather less expensive suit made a point of flashing his own invitation at the doormen and pushing past. He kept his head down and George was unable to see the young man's face. Nonetheless, he felt there was something very familiar about him. He felt his blood run cold as he realised who it was.

Liz gave a gasp of astonishment as she realised too.

‘Oy, guv'nor,' the new arrival said loudly to the closer of the two doormen, ‘I think that gentleman dropped his invitation at the top of the stairs. Saw it come out of his pocket I did.' He nodded to Henry Malvern. ‘Didn't realise what it was, but I'm sure that's what happened. Just over there, it was.' He pointed, and all three men in the doorway turned to look.

As they turned, the young man flicked the invitation he was holding across the floor. It came to rest, unseen, just outside the door. ‘Oh, my mistake,' the lad announced. ‘There it is, look.'

One of the doormen picked up the card. ‘Henry Malvern?'

Malvern snatched the card. ‘Indeed.' He straightened his jacket, glared at each doorman in turn, and then strode into the room. He paused as he passed the lad. ‘Thank you,' he said curtly.

‘Lucky I was here,' the lad replied. But Malvern had already moved on.

‘Very lucky,' George said, moving quickly to intercept the young man. ‘Eddie.' He turned for moral support from Liz. But she was staring open-mouthed after Malvern.