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discoveredinaljHigh noon here, but I'm keeping a wary eye on GMT, not to drift inadvertently over to Pago Pago. I've had my three hours of sleep and one cup of coffee. Think perhaps soaking me head in a bucket of coffee might be more efficacious [heh].
Holly Golly and the Strange Case of the Purloined Idol
Part 2
"Be careful, this mob is not at all reluctant over murder and mayhem. You've a number of possible connections to the counterfeiters outlined there, which you are to pursue systematically. 4.5's recommendations are all laid out in order of priority, so you should have no difficulties whatsoever." Cowley managed to make 'have no difficulties' sound like an order, as he handed off the file.
Doyle couldn't help it. He gusted a sigh, following the path of his hard work from the Controller to Williams, who glanced rather guiltily toward his fellow agent, shrugged in apology, seized the file and fled.
Doyle caught himself worrying his lip between his teeth again, and forced himself to quit. He was chapped raw with the compulsion, a newly developed tick he despised.
"I must compliment you; you write a fine precis," Cowley declared crisply, already sorting through his paperwork for 4.5's next task. After awhile, he noticed the prolonged silence. Over the top of his thick spectacles, he examined an oblivious Ray Doyle. "How's the leg today?"
"Twenty four hours better than it was yesterday," Doyle grumbled before he fully perceived the tone of his vocalized rudeness to the Old Man. "But thank you for asking, sir," he hastily added.
"Oh, aye," Cowley nodded, indicating he'd taken no offense, even though he probably had. "Now, I should like for you to meet with certain elderly gentlemen in the business of banking, whom I conceive to have unique long term perspectives on the subject of Funny Money." In an otherwise straight statement, he emphasized the last phrase with a mere hint of a Glaswegian twist.
Ray's mouth twitched at the corners.
Cowley stacked some pages precisely. "Tainted tosheroons."
Doyle chuckled.
"Otherwise known as bad boudo, jakeless jangles, doubtful doubloons, questionable quid, scunner hunners, wallie wans." The Old Man continued his deadpan delivery, all the while shuffling pages. "Misbegotten monkeys, peculiar ponies, mancky macaroni."
Now Doyle was laughing heartily.
"Not to mention sham shillings, bad bob, tetched tanners, and nonsense nickers," Cowley concluded, rolling his final 'R's with relish, never once having changed countenance.
"Yeah, not to mention those," Doyle agreed at last.
"Och, that's better." Cowley assessingly eyed his agent before handing him some typewritten sheets. "I trust you will give these experts all due attention, and I look forward to reading your analysis of the meeting."
"Yes sir." Without demur, Doyle received the assignment and departed.
****^^^^****
The old codgers actually proved to be quite interesting and informative, and
Doyle found himself enjoying the meeting.
At a glossy mahogany table surrounded by well dressed old men, Ray nibbled delicate biscuits and tiny crustless sandwiches, drank several excellent cups of tea out of some shockingly dainty porcelain, listened respectfully and spoke as little as politely possible. It occurred to him that getting shot had proven quite a rung-up on the social ladder for him lately.
Hell of a way to rise, though, and he'd really rather not, thank you very much.
He still had a giggle over 'tainted tosheroons', and had to avoid the thought lest he laugh out loud. It was a pleasant giftie from the Old Man, which he found himself prodding in puzzlement, wondering what had inspired Cowley to get chummy.
Also while contemplating the extraordinary sneakiness of Funny Money, it occurred to him to wonder how agent 6.9 was progressing in Berwick-upon-Tweed. It would certainly help the progress of this op, to have one of the villains in custody for questioning, even a lowly hired hand such as the individual 6.9 had gone north to fetch.
He made a note to ask Cowley about that.
After his meeting, Doyle was meant to call headquarters for a return ride. But the timing was up to him, and he couldn't resist the urge to take the long way home. With the classic Roman facade of the bank as a towering backdrop, he flagged a taxi. He was only slightly disgruntled when the driver sprang out to help him down the last flight of marble stairs. Likely the man was only wanting a better tip, and in this setting Ray couldn't blame him for assuming his passenger had the wherewithal to pay for the extra personal service.
He refused to consider the possibility he might actually appear that helpless.
They drove to Moorgate, to an address a mere biscuit's toss from Threadneedle Street. As he paid the driver, including a gratuity he couldn't really afford, he debated asking the cabbie to wait but then dismissed him after all. Even if the junior Mestairs refused to see him, Doyle could still justify his current situation in his call to CI5 for a pickup. This was the heart of the financial district, and Ray might be following a lead to the counterfeiter mob in the vicinity.
He studied the engraved brass plate at the door, which proclaimed the office of Wilberforce Mestairs, Chartered Accountant, FCA, ICAEW. The building was one that boasted inconveniently low ceilings as a result of being centuries old and under protection against modernization. When Mestairs personally answered the door, he didn't seem to mind matters, in spite of having to stoop.
The Colonel's son was an edited version of his father, having similar height but lacking his beefy presence. Strength of intellect seemed to have triumphed over mere anatomy, supplanting it. Wilberforce Mestairs appeared pale and polite, tall, thin and thoughtful. Doyle imagined the man would be mildly vague in everything other than the subject of finance, a field where he'd suddenly prove dominantly authoritative. The chief thing he seemed to share with his dad, other than their patronymic, was an ingrained presentation of being well-bred.
"Please, call me Willby." This invitation seemed genuinely friendly, nor could Doyle discern in the accountant anything other than pleased surprise at having unexpected company. "Come in, sit down, make yourself comfortable. You've come here after a gallop past the old homestead, I gather? Strange thing about the missing Mithras. The missing Mithras, heavens that's hard to say without mangling it."
"Yes. Do you have any idea what's become of it?"
"Sadly, no. It was there in the safe, the last time I looked at the books for Malcolm."
"Itself, or the secure box?"
"Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. No, the actual tauroctony."
"You're certain?"
"I took it out and held it, yes."
Doyle blinked. The Colonel had indicated a near-certainty that his son had no interest in the sculpture. Therefore, Willby's action had taken place surreptitiously. "Why'd you do that?"
"Hmm? Oh, just I miss it, I suppose. Part of my childhood you see. It used to sit there in splendour, place of honour over the fireplace, centre of my young world, visions of Roman centurions, and all that. I think I may feel a bit shattered, if it's actually gone for good, you know?"
So, Willby hadn't confided such feelings to the Colonel. Doyle drew the tauroctony photo out of his pocket and set it on the efficiently organized desk. "It's a terrific piece, isn't it?" Ray said fervently.
"That it is." Mestairs accepted the photo and gazed at it with evident yearning. "Graceful, mysterious. Rather like my mother, if you'll excuse some serious nostalgia on my part. She was an amateur archaeologist, but quite well respected in the field. My cousin Aellwyn is following in her footsteps, but properly at university. Something in the genes, I suppose, all of us such saps for antiquity. How is your investigation progressing? Have you got any leads at all?"
"Too soon to tell."
Suddenly, Willby ceased staring at the photo and commenced staring at Doyle. "Gods, it can't be!" he muttered. "Seem so familiar, I thought we must have met. But I know we never have until just now. It's you, it really is, isn't it?"
"Well, it was when I looked in the mirror to shave this morning, yeah," Doyle returned, bemused. "Things might have changed since then, but I doubt it," he added with a shrug and a good natured chuckle.
"Oh, sorry, old man. You must think I've gone stark staring mad. But I'm such an admirer of 'Astral Chaos', you simply can't imagine."
Doyle's heart suddenly took to thumping double time. "Astral Chaos?" his voice squeaked a bit.
"The painting in the Darstene Collection. You were the model for Mithras, surely?"
"Bleedin' 'ell!"
Willby stood, reached for a decanter and poured. "Do have a brandy, Doyle. You look as if you've had a shock."
Wordlessly, Ray accepted the glass and swallowed long and hard. "Fine lotion, that," he wheezed appreciatively.
"Have I blundered utterly?" Mestairs poured another brandy for himself before he resumed his desk chair. "I can't be wrong, the likeness is perfect. You knew the artist, didn't you?"
"Darlin' Darstene," Ray raised his glass before drinking the toast, "was my master in art school."
"Wow."
"And as far as I know, 'Astral Chaos' was never more than a pencil sketch in a dusty old drawing book."
"I see. Well, somewhat, anyway. You must view the painting sometime, really. It's in a private gallery; an acquaintance of mine with eclectic tastes in modern art is friends with the owner. I'd be happy to refer you, you know. Though really, if you just knocked on the front door, you'd bowl them right over there. Hand the butler a calling card with 'Mithras, esquire' on it, good for a laugh. But then again, I suppose that wouldn't be quite the thing, would it?"
"Imagine not," Doyle nodded, finishing the lovely brandy to the last drop, as he found various subjects of interest to discuss with Willby.
****^^^^****
It was a sign of extreme distraction, when it never occurred to him that his ride back to headquarters might feature Murphy behind the wheel.
Doyle met Murphy in front of Willby's office and then regretted it.
Murph bundled Ray into the passenger seat and then lit into him severely. "What are you doing here?"
"Pursuing the Colonel's inquiry, of course. Spoke with Willby about the missing tauroctony. Why not?"
"Oh, ah. So you didn't go into the..., never mind."
"I didn't even admire the 'nevermind' from a distance, much less go into it, no." Doyle was just about to demand an explanation, with specific clarification in no uncertain terms, of what exactly a 'nevermind' represented in the Colonel's secret society. And also to ask whether said unmentionable something or other happened to be located in a mysterious subterranean locale under Wilberforce Mestairs' historic office building.
But Murphy abruptly turned the conversation. "Anyway, I thought Bodie and I were supposed to do all the leg work. What's your partner going to say when he finds out you've been galumphing all over town on that crutch?"
"What's it to you, or to Sergeant WAP Bodie for that matter, where I go or how I get there?" Doyle felt distinctly irritable. He was tired and achy. His hopes had been dashed, for a bland CI5 driver whose chief interest in life was getting briskly back to a cuppa at HQ. And Ray was not at all pleased with being thoroughly questioned right down to the knit pattern on his socks, especially not by dashing SAS Sergeant Soldierboy bleedin' Esquire, himself, here.
"Well, for one thing," Murphy replied evenly, "you've been days now, investigating a ruthless and violent mob, haven't you? Stirring things up, and if you're true to form, hot on their trail, closing fast. How are the villains to know when you suddenly shift gears, to pursue your discrete sleuthing sideline? It could be dangerous, so you just might like to consider calling for backup when you're out on the streets."
"Oh yeah, right. Too very likely, innit, I'll be assaulted by a gang of hardened cutthroats, whilst standing within a polite cheerio of the ruddy old Bank of England. Don't make me laugh." He had a righteous diatribe all lined up and ready to fire at point blank range.
"Sorry, sunshine."
Murphy sounded so much like Bodie, it cocked Doyle smack in the gob.
Ray grew quite indignant then, resenting what seemed to be mockery. Who the hell did Murphy think he was, counterfeiting Bodie in that manner? He turned to glare at his fellow agent. But all at once his angry thoughts and words melted away like urban winter slush in a downpour of rain. Murphy was a jovial fellow, likeable, reliable, well spoken, ever ready with a joke, great in a fight.
It occurred to Doyle suddenly to wonder, why Murphy would subconsciously mimic Bodie. Because clearly, mockery was the farthest thing from the man's mind as he sat there, calm and competent. The only thing Ray could imagine was that Murphy, being matey with Bodie, had been entrusted with the safekeeping of one stroppy Raymond Doyle. And poor Murph was trying to emulate his friend's style, which had a successful history of placating this miserably difficult charge.
Then it seemed particularly surly of Doyle, to be giving Murphy such a hard time for no good reason. And by now being in full guilty mode, he added in the fact he should be grateful, that his best mate Bodie had such an excellent person to take over as partner while Doyle was out of action. With that wretched reflection, his afternoon avalanche hit rock bottom and froze in a deep dark gorge. Ray slumped down and huddled into the passenger seat.
After a dreary while, they stopped. He was out of the motor, heading for the entrance with Murphy supervising his progress, when he finally wondered why they were going into a pub.
Murph must have reckoned that Doyle needed a bracer. Maybe he was right. Ray planned on allowing himself to be jollied. He organized it so that he continued bleak and meek throughout the process of finding seats and acquiring sustenance. Then he picked at things a few moments, only gradually evolving the appearance of returning appetite and good humour.
Well it wouldn't hurt, would it, to give good old Murph a feeling of job satisfaction?
To ice the Christmas cake, Doyle described in detail the Old Man's joke about tainted tosheroons and whatnot, which tale soon had Murphy smiling genially.
When Bodie entered the pub, Doyle jumped in startlement. He wasn't exactly sure why he should feel guilty about sharing a laugh and a jar with Murphy, but he did.
It didn't mitigate matters when Bodie acted the part of the offended partner. "Tut, Raymond, malingering without me? I'm 'urt and 'eartsick, I am."
Murphy came to the rescue. "At ease, Sergeant. I've only just dragged the poor fellow up from the pit of despair, so leave off. And fetch another round, will you, Will?"
It was a stab right to the heart. Murphy had a chummy first name by which to call Bodie, and Doyle hadn't. After that, despite his resolve to be ordinary good company, Ray gradually sank into silent contemplation. He only rallied when he perceived the other two staring at him.
Bodie was wondering who had taken the tauroctony. And Murphy was supposing it might have been an unknown burglar, a case of breaking and entering after all. This was a clumsy and transparent ruse to draw Doyle back into the conversation.
It only succeeded because Ray was weary of his private thoughts. "Supposing the presence of anonymous guilty third parties is the last resort of the incompetent," he informed them with constabulary authority.
They grinned like matched gargoyle bookends, and declared themselves delighted to acknowledge his expertise.
"Right then. Who dunnit?" Bodie demanded, rubbing his hands together over the prospect of playing at detectives.
"Hmm. Let's pursue this logically, in traditional fashion, shall we?" Doyle acknowledged his partner's glee. "The tauroctony used to be in the Colonel's safe and now it isn't. Why would anyone want to take it? Bodie, what do you think?"
"It's valuable. Somebody took it to flog it for cash."
"Monetary motives. Always believable, Adam and Eve's spawn being what they are," Doyle nodded approval. "Now, what person or persons with access to the safe were hard up for cash? Murphy, your turn."
"The household staff."
"Possible but improbable. If the butler and cook dunnit, why didn't they steal the jewelry as well? Much easier to unload for profit than a great awful chunk of marble, art which is rare and recognizable, with a very limited market."
"They were hoping the theft would go unnoticed, which it did. By the time it was discovered, the trail would have grown cold, which it has."
"Also possible, although you imagine quite a bit of calculating wile there, which would be out of character for people who have shown themselves reliable for decades. So you'll forgive me if I rate that suggestion rather unlikely as well."
"Fair enough."
"Let's set money aside for the moment," Ray touched the side of his nose, nodding at his students in sleuthing. He was getting into the spirit of things now. "What other motives might there be? Come on, lads, use your imaginations here. No clue? Right, I'll give you a nudge. If Mabel Mestairs took the tauroctony, why might she do it, other than money?"
"Spite?" Bodie suggested, his brow crinkled in intense contemplation. "It belonged to the Colonel's first wife. Maybe he loved her better and Mabel hates the idea?"
"That's using your noggin," Doyle knocked on Bodie's forehead as if it were a wooden door. "No echo, full of grey matter. I like your imagination, old son. Now then to Murphy, a question in the same vein. How about the Colonel? Why might he steal his own tauroctony?"
Murphy scrunched his face in cerebration. "I'm afraid I'm right back to filthy lucre. He's insured it for oodles, and he wants the assurance company to cough up now. Made some bad investments, that sort of thing, and he finds himself inconvenienced for want of pin money."
"Less creative than Bodie's suggestion," Doyle judged.
At which statement, Bodie elbowed Murphy, who actually stuck his tongue out in return, much to Ray's amusement.
"Still, we'll let it pass, since it's at least a formal possibility. Although you should be aware, the assurance company investigators are no pushovers; they tend to be a well paid lot, and therefore canny or canned."
"What about Willby and Aellwyn, then, since we're busy maligning the family?" Bodie smirked.
"Speaking out of turn," Murphy complained in an overdone whine.
"Well, let's hear it. What might be a motive for the next generation, gone rotten?" Doyle rolled his eyes.
"Resentment against Mabel," Murphy hastily took over. "Wicked step-mother and all that classic line. The cousins have conspired to lift the object, feeling it deserves better than to be locked up in a safe."
"Hmm, interesting."
"Hey, that's my idea," Bodie hard-kneed Murphy's leg under the table. "I was gonna say that and you stole it, you weasel."
"Did not. Thought of it on my own. Besides which, it's a stupid idea. I can't imagine either of them even thinking of stealing anything, much less acting upon a plan."
"Neither can I," Bodie shrugged at Murphy and grinned apologetically at Doyle.
"I shall yield to present authority," Doyle decreed graciously, "under the category of 'know thy subjects', which you both do better than I. Which leaves one class of suspects still to consider. Soldiers, AKA the Colonel's Command."
Bodie and Murphy stopped smiling and clamped shut their respective gnashers on any replies they might be tempted to make.
"Oh, right, I do recall," Doyle stated wryly. "Sacred vows of silence, comrades at arms and all that. Which means that you two pretty much have to review roll call on your own, since you're the ones who know your cult's membership. But someone ought to consider power as a motivation for theft. Maybe one of your lot reckons to break away, start his own Mythraic Mystery with the ancient idol in hand. He knows he'll never rise above Leo status in your group, and he rather fancies himself as a Pater."
"It's not like that," Murphy objected.
Bodie shoved him harshly. "Shut up. The crafty little toad is baiting you for the sake of his interrogation."
"All right, all right, no need to resort to violence," Murphy retorted.
Using his raised beer glass as cover, Doyle grinned wickedly, having heard all that he hoped.
****^^^^****
There came a vast celestial roar.
The cosmos shifted.
Queasy, headachy, ready to gip, he twisted in torment, wrenching open his eyes.
Doyle expected the black of night, but got mysterious silvery grey instead. Where the hell? His hands were numb and he seemed to be lying on them. There was a sound of chanting in Latin which throbbed in unison with the artery in his jaw. Bizarre.
Somewhere nearby, water trickled and dripped musically into a bronze urn.
He really didn't want to vomit on himself, but found it impossible to turn onto his side. He swallowed hard. His tongue was sour and desiccated. Desperately he clenched his abdominal musculature, willing his guts not to rise any further. Peristalsis in reverse, gruesome. Not gonna puke, he told himself. Once he got going at that, he felt he never would be able to stop.
Doyle groaned, and immediately panicked that he might have called attention to his dreary corner. What he could glimpse of his surroundings was terrifying. It was a clammy dank vault capturing vague space, formed of rough stone walls but with a hint of starry sky where the ceiling ought to be. Or were those glistening bits just patterns in mosaic, depicting the constellations?
His scummy, blurred vision could not discriminate.
He shivered, sweaty and miserable, and scanned down to see if there might be some cover he could writhe under to warm himself. He was nude, and his flesh appeared all mottled shades with greenish haloes in an indeterminate light, which flickered around him from an unseen source. What ought to be a sheet or blanket proved to be an embroidered cloak. He managed to nudge his bare feet under the cloth.
A metallic rattle captured his attention. In the distance stood a solemn group. Soldiers certainly, but clad in ancient garb, bristling with swords and spears. One contubernium, with a second squad carefully aligned behind the first.
Roman soldiers! In spite of his fear, Doyle felt inexplicably thrilled at the view. Their officer, proud in profile, stood reviewing his men. A centurion, glorious in red tunic and gleaming armor, wore a helmet crested with a horsehair plume. At his order, the men, legionarii all, grim veterans of ancient wars, drew and presented daggers, then pounded the pugio hafts rhythmically against the leathern breastplates of their chainmail.
Doyle wondered if they were preparing to stab something, a sacrifice perhaps. But he could see no hapless animal, and reminded himself it was several days yet until the winter solstice.
"Splendid, aren't they?"
Doyle's heart leaped painfully in alarm, almost bursting out of his chest. He turned his head toward the shadows. "Willby?" he croaked.
"I'm not really supposed to be here, which is why they can't see me. I'm not a soldier, not allowed to witness the mysteries. But the tauroctony is mine, handed down to me from the Mater," he confided. "So here I am."
"Help me."
"Eh? Speak up, can't quite make you out."
"Shh! They'll hear you. Hurry up and unfasten my hands."
"I'm afraid that's quite out of the question."
"You mean, you're with them?"
"Of course I am, in spirit at least."
"Well, I'm bloody well not, so untie me and I'll get out."
"So beautiful," Willby stroked the tauroctony, which was settled across his knees. "The stars of the galaxy, there in the palm of my hand. This represents the precession of the equinoxes. The bull is the constellation Taurus of course, the dog is Canus major, then here's Scorpio, Hydra, and Leo. Your cloak is the whole of the Milky Way. There's glory for you."
"My cloak?" Doyle kicked at the glittering black cloth tangled around his numb feet.
"Of course, my Liege Lord Mithras."
"I'm not Mithras."
"Yes you are. You admitted it to me in my office."
"You're nutty as a fruitcake. Hey, the brandy! You put something into my glass, didn't you?"
"How do you know it wasn't Murphy or Bodie? Went drinking with them afterwards, didn't you?"
Doyle paused to consider that. "They wouldn't drug me."
"Why not? They had to bring you here somehow, your presence is necessary for the solemnities. Just ask Murphy. I'll call him over, shall I?"
Doyle stared at the handsome centurion. Murphy? Couldn't be, could it? Ray shuddered uncontrollably. "Where's Bodie?"
"Oh, doubtless nearby. Those two are seldom far apart. Comrades at arms through the millennia, oaths of constancy, all that brave intent. Admirable, isn't it?"
Bodie was still his partner. Bodie would save him. Doyle believed it, heart and soul.
"There he is now. Magnificent, isn't he?"
Bodie was Primus pilus, senior centurion of the legion, commander of the first cohort. He was brilliant in crimson and gleaming body armor, with a leather cingulum cinched around his sturdy torso, and bright greaves clasping his muscular calves.
Pride of place glittered fiercely in his eye. He looked directly at Doyle and then straight through him like a thrown javelin finding and piercing beyond the killing mark.
Ray struggled against his bonds. Suddenly a threatening shadow loomed over him, hand raised, wielding a dagger. Doyle screamed as the blade plunged. The tearing pain was horrible.
He looked down at his bloodless chest. A sprig of holly pierced him to the heart, the shining green leaves throbbing there with each beat of his life's pulse.
"Holly golly," someone said, and they all laughed.
His hands came suddenly free from constraint and he rolled away from his assailant, crashing straight into the hard marble tauroctony.
Willby shouted hilariously, "Astral chaos ensues."
When Doyle hit his bedroom floor, it jarred his bad leg. Grateful he hadn't landed directly on his healing wound, he crawled woozily to the lav and made it there just in time to vomit accurately at the porcelain target.
Perhaps he shouldn't have taken those tablets after all. He'd waited before swallowing them, quite awhile after drinking at the pub, until he was ready to pass out into his bed from exhaustion. Probably hadn't been long enough though. Vowing never again to drink 'for medicinal purposes', no matter how well intentioned the offer from friends treating him to the next round, he brushed his teeth and eagerly drank off a refreshing tumbler of water.
Gradually his head cleared and his stomach settled.
He phoned for a taxi. By the time it arrived, he was dressed for an adventure on a crystal cold December night. A subterranean mystery awaited his investigation.
****^^^^****
This time, when he paid an excessive tip to the cabbie, it was with intent, to wit, fending off justifiable suspicion.
Doyle felt acutely aware that neither his appearance nor his speech were consistent with playing the role of cultured chartered accountant. Just nipped round for some paperwork left at his offices next to, yeah, right, her regal nibship The Bank of England. Standing in front of Wilberforce Mestairs' office door, Ray fumbled with his keys in the not nearly dark enough moonlight, until the taxi driver finally got fed up watching him and drove away.
Striving to keep his crutch from sinking into the thin strip of mud that skirted the structure, Doyle hiked around the square of historic buildings. He confirmed his earlier impression that there were numerous small iron-grated vents, implying the presence of underground rooms.
Then he returned to pick Willby's lock.
It was petty of Ray, but he didn't feel at all guilty. He just wanted to see if there was anything comparable to the mithraeum of his nightmare vision, skulking in the basement here. The idea didn't come into consideration, that Murphy and Bodie, being the Colonel's men, might be welcome inside whereas Doyle wasn't.
He told himself he didn't resent it, well, not much, anyway.
Since there were multiple locks and bolts, it took him a few minutes to get inside. Then, torch in hand, he explored the hall, ready to scarper in the event the police arrived. They didn't, and after waiting a sufficiently prudent pause, Doyle explored every exit in the establishment.
Inside a passage-pantry used to shelve office supplies, he discovered a small door inset in the far wall, and beyond this, a narrow flight of stairs leading steeply down. He had to abandon his crutch here, but there was a rough hewn banister to aid him in his descent.
He found three basement levels below Willby's offices. Doyle dubbed them Hades One, Hades Posh, and The Friggin' River Styx. The deepest level was all weeping surfaces and dripping edges, with a neatly bricked, slimy gutter that conducted a murky rivulet out of the place.
In contrast, Hades One was dry and dusty, an extremely close space of blackened surfaces, which must have been the coal drop in earlier decades.
Off the middle landing was Hades Posh, an interesting room as viewed in the weird platinum beam of Doyle's torch. In here, he could stand upright with headroom to spare, though disappointingly, the ceiling didn't feature a glittering Roman mosaic depicting the galaxy. A bit of mist did cling there, however, crept up from The Friggin' River Styx through unseen crevices, adding a hint of secret menace.
Along one wall were some stacked plank pallets, which had most likely been used as supports for transporting heavy goods. Doyle preferred to think of them as klinai, and imagined them bedecked with cushions, with Murphy and Bodie in their centurion finery, reclining on them in comfort while a secret banquet was consumed, part of the Mythraic Mystery rites for the winter solstice.
Or not, Doyle shrugged, feeling the weariness of the hour seep into the marrow of his limbs. As he turned to leave, the torch beam fractured over an imperfection in the farthest wall. Limping deeper into the gloom, Ray discovered a ponderous oak barrel hiding behind it a low, cramped exit. The paint on the door was cracked and peeling. A warning printed across it admonished: 'Do NOT Block' and in smaller, crumbling, poorly legible print, 'London Building Acts 1939' and "Wartime Contraventions'.
Not exactly a discovery of brilliant archaeologic import, Ray chuckled. This time he was more than ready to depart, when suddenly the exit moaned.
"What the hell?"
Former Detective Constable Doyle instantly took charge of the scene. In his experience, doors did not make such animate noises. He grabbed the awkward rusted latch and rattled it. Then he crouched, all his weight hard upon his good leg, and pressed his sinewy shoulders against the wood. Once, twice, and on the third shove, the entire barrier, frame and all, fragmented in a rotten cloud of sawdust, splinters and paint chips.
Doyle hurtled forward and plunged down, landing with a bony crunch on top of a body.
By the reek of the thing, it was a gory corpse.
[continued in Part 3]
[And many thanks to you dear people who have been commenting along the way. Nice not to be a lone voice in the vast universe!]
Holly Golly and the Strange Case of the Purloined Idol
Part 2
"Be careful, this mob is not at all reluctant over murder and mayhem. You've a number of possible connections to the counterfeiters outlined there, which you are to pursue systematically. 4.5's recommendations are all laid out in order of priority, so you should have no difficulties whatsoever." Cowley managed to make 'have no difficulties' sound like an order, as he handed off the file.
Doyle couldn't help it. He gusted a sigh, following the path of his hard work from the Controller to Williams, who glanced rather guiltily toward his fellow agent, shrugged in apology, seized the file and fled.
Doyle caught himself worrying his lip between his teeth again, and forced himself to quit. He was chapped raw with the compulsion, a newly developed tick he despised.
"I must compliment you; you write a fine precis," Cowley declared crisply, already sorting through his paperwork for 4.5's next task. After awhile, he noticed the prolonged silence. Over the top of his thick spectacles, he examined an oblivious Ray Doyle. "How's the leg today?"
"Twenty four hours better than it was yesterday," Doyle grumbled before he fully perceived the tone of his vocalized rudeness to the Old Man. "But thank you for asking, sir," he hastily added.
"Oh, aye," Cowley nodded, indicating he'd taken no offense, even though he probably had. "Now, I should like for you to meet with certain elderly gentlemen in the business of banking, whom I conceive to have unique long term perspectives on the subject of Funny Money." In an otherwise straight statement, he emphasized the last phrase with a mere hint of a Glaswegian twist.
Ray's mouth twitched at the corners.
Cowley stacked some pages precisely. "Tainted tosheroons."
Doyle chuckled.
"Otherwise known as bad boudo, jakeless jangles, doubtful doubloons, questionable quid, scunner hunners, wallie wans." The Old Man continued his deadpan delivery, all the while shuffling pages. "Misbegotten monkeys, peculiar ponies, mancky macaroni."
Now Doyle was laughing heartily.
"Not to mention sham shillings, bad bob, tetched tanners, and nonsense nickers," Cowley concluded, rolling his final 'R's with relish, never once having changed countenance.
"Yeah, not to mention those," Doyle agreed at last.
"Och, that's better." Cowley assessingly eyed his agent before handing him some typewritten sheets. "I trust you will give these experts all due attention, and I look forward to reading your analysis of the meeting."
"Yes sir." Without demur, Doyle received the assignment and departed.
****^^^^****
The old codgers actually proved to be quite interesting and informative, and
Doyle found himself enjoying the meeting.
At a glossy mahogany table surrounded by well dressed old men, Ray nibbled delicate biscuits and tiny crustless sandwiches, drank several excellent cups of tea out of some shockingly dainty porcelain, listened respectfully and spoke as little as politely possible. It occurred to him that getting shot had proven quite a rung-up on the social ladder for him lately.
Hell of a way to rise, though, and he'd really rather not, thank you very much.
He still had a giggle over 'tainted tosheroons', and had to avoid the thought lest he laugh out loud. It was a pleasant giftie from the Old Man, which he found himself prodding in puzzlement, wondering what had inspired Cowley to get chummy.
Also while contemplating the extraordinary sneakiness of Funny Money, it occurred to him to wonder how agent 6.9 was progressing in Berwick-upon-Tweed. It would certainly help the progress of this op, to have one of the villains in custody for questioning, even a lowly hired hand such as the individual 6.9 had gone north to fetch.
He made a note to ask Cowley about that.
After his meeting, Doyle was meant to call headquarters for a return ride. But the timing was up to him, and he couldn't resist the urge to take the long way home. With the classic Roman facade of the bank as a towering backdrop, he flagged a taxi. He was only slightly disgruntled when the driver sprang out to help him down the last flight of marble stairs. Likely the man was only wanting a better tip, and in this setting Ray couldn't blame him for assuming his passenger had the wherewithal to pay for the extra personal service.
He refused to consider the possibility he might actually appear that helpless.
They drove to Moorgate, to an address a mere biscuit's toss from Threadneedle Street. As he paid the driver, including a gratuity he couldn't really afford, he debated asking the cabbie to wait but then dismissed him after all. Even if the junior Mestairs refused to see him, Doyle could still justify his current situation in his call to CI5 for a pickup. This was the heart of the financial district, and Ray might be following a lead to the counterfeiter mob in the vicinity.
He studied the engraved brass plate at the door, which proclaimed the office of Wilberforce Mestairs, Chartered Accountant, FCA, ICAEW. The building was one that boasted inconveniently low ceilings as a result of being centuries old and under protection against modernization. When Mestairs personally answered the door, he didn't seem to mind matters, in spite of having to stoop.
The Colonel's son was an edited version of his father, having similar height but lacking his beefy presence. Strength of intellect seemed to have triumphed over mere anatomy, supplanting it. Wilberforce Mestairs appeared pale and polite, tall, thin and thoughtful. Doyle imagined the man would be mildly vague in everything other than the subject of finance, a field where he'd suddenly prove dominantly authoritative. The chief thing he seemed to share with his dad, other than their patronymic, was an ingrained presentation of being well-bred.
"Please, call me Willby." This invitation seemed genuinely friendly, nor could Doyle discern in the accountant anything other than pleased surprise at having unexpected company. "Come in, sit down, make yourself comfortable. You've come here after a gallop past the old homestead, I gather? Strange thing about the missing Mithras. The missing Mithras, heavens that's hard to say without mangling it."
"Yes. Do you have any idea what's become of it?"
"Sadly, no. It was there in the safe, the last time I looked at the books for Malcolm."
"Itself, or the secure box?"
"Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. No, the actual tauroctony."
"You're certain?"
"I took it out and held it, yes."
Doyle blinked. The Colonel had indicated a near-certainty that his son had no interest in the sculpture. Therefore, Willby's action had taken place surreptitiously. "Why'd you do that?"
"Hmm? Oh, just I miss it, I suppose. Part of my childhood you see. It used to sit there in splendour, place of honour over the fireplace, centre of my young world, visions of Roman centurions, and all that. I think I may feel a bit shattered, if it's actually gone for good, you know?"
So, Willby hadn't confided such feelings to the Colonel. Doyle drew the tauroctony photo out of his pocket and set it on the efficiently organized desk. "It's a terrific piece, isn't it?" Ray said fervently.
"That it is." Mestairs accepted the photo and gazed at it with evident yearning. "Graceful, mysterious. Rather like my mother, if you'll excuse some serious nostalgia on my part. She was an amateur archaeologist, but quite well respected in the field. My cousin Aellwyn is following in her footsteps, but properly at university. Something in the genes, I suppose, all of us such saps for antiquity. How is your investigation progressing? Have you got any leads at all?"
"Too soon to tell."
Suddenly, Willby ceased staring at the photo and commenced staring at Doyle. "Gods, it can't be!" he muttered. "Seem so familiar, I thought we must have met. But I know we never have until just now. It's you, it really is, isn't it?"
"Well, it was when I looked in the mirror to shave this morning, yeah," Doyle returned, bemused. "Things might have changed since then, but I doubt it," he added with a shrug and a good natured chuckle.
"Oh, sorry, old man. You must think I've gone stark staring mad. But I'm such an admirer of 'Astral Chaos', you simply can't imagine."
Doyle's heart suddenly took to thumping double time. "Astral Chaos?" his voice squeaked a bit.
"The painting in the Darstene Collection. You were the model for Mithras, surely?"
"Bleedin' 'ell!"
Willby stood, reached for a decanter and poured. "Do have a brandy, Doyle. You look as if you've had a shock."
Wordlessly, Ray accepted the glass and swallowed long and hard. "Fine lotion, that," he wheezed appreciatively.
"Have I blundered utterly?" Mestairs poured another brandy for himself before he resumed his desk chair. "I can't be wrong, the likeness is perfect. You knew the artist, didn't you?"
"Darlin' Darstene," Ray raised his glass before drinking the toast, "was my master in art school."
"Wow."
"And as far as I know, 'Astral Chaos' was never more than a pencil sketch in a dusty old drawing book."
"I see. Well, somewhat, anyway. You must view the painting sometime, really. It's in a private gallery; an acquaintance of mine with eclectic tastes in modern art is friends with the owner. I'd be happy to refer you, you know. Though really, if you just knocked on the front door, you'd bowl them right over there. Hand the butler a calling card with 'Mithras, esquire' on it, good for a laugh. But then again, I suppose that wouldn't be quite the thing, would it?"
"Imagine not," Doyle nodded, finishing the lovely brandy to the last drop, as he found various subjects of interest to discuss with Willby.
****^^^^****
It was a sign of extreme distraction, when it never occurred to him that his ride back to headquarters might feature Murphy behind the wheel.
Doyle met Murphy in front of Willby's office and then regretted it.
Murph bundled Ray into the passenger seat and then lit into him severely. "What are you doing here?"
"Pursuing the Colonel's inquiry, of course. Spoke with Willby about the missing tauroctony. Why not?"
"Oh, ah. So you didn't go into the..., never mind."
"I didn't even admire the 'nevermind' from a distance, much less go into it, no." Doyle was just about to demand an explanation, with specific clarification in no uncertain terms, of what exactly a 'nevermind' represented in the Colonel's secret society. And also to ask whether said unmentionable something or other happened to be located in a mysterious subterranean locale under Wilberforce Mestairs' historic office building.
But Murphy abruptly turned the conversation. "Anyway, I thought Bodie and I were supposed to do all the leg work. What's your partner going to say when he finds out you've been galumphing all over town on that crutch?"
"What's it to you, or to Sergeant WAP Bodie for that matter, where I go or how I get there?" Doyle felt distinctly irritable. He was tired and achy. His hopes had been dashed, for a bland CI5 driver whose chief interest in life was getting briskly back to a cuppa at HQ. And Ray was not at all pleased with being thoroughly questioned right down to the knit pattern on his socks, especially not by dashing SAS Sergeant Soldierboy bleedin' Esquire, himself, here.
"Well, for one thing," Murphy replied evenly, "you've been days now, investigating a ruthless and violent mob, haven't you? Stirring things up, and if you're true to form, hot on their trail, closing fast. How are the villains to know when you suddenly shift gears, to pursue your discrete sleuthing sideline? It could be dangerous, so you just might like to consider calling for backup when you're out on the streets."
"Oh yeah, right. Too very likely, innit, I'll be assaulted by a gang of hardened cutthroats, whilst standing within a polite cheerio of the ruddy old Bank of England. Don't make me laugh." He had a righteous diatribe all lined up and ready to fire at point blank range.
"Sorry, sunshine."
Murphy sounded so much like Bodie, it cocked Doyle smack in the gob.
Ray grew quite indignant then, resenting what seemed to be mockery. Who the hell did Murphy think he was, counterfeiting Bodie in that manner? He turned to glare at his fellow agent. But all at once his angry thoughts and words melted away like urban winter slush in a downpour of rain. Murphy was a jovial fellow, likeable, reliable, well spoken, ever ready with a joke, great in a fight.
It occurred to Doyle suddenly to wonder, why Murphy would subconsciously mimic Bodie. Because clearly, mockery was the farthest thing from the man's mind as he sat there, calm and competent. The only thing Ray could imagine was that Murphy, being matey with Bodie, had been entrusted with the safekeeping of one stroppy Raymond Doyle. And poor Murph was trying to emulate his friend's style, which had a successful history of placating this miserably difficult charge.
Then it seemed particularly surly of Doyle, to be giving Murphy such a hard time for no good reason. And by now being in full guilty mode, he added in the fact he should be grateful, that his best mate Bodie had such an excellent person to take over as partner while Doyle was out of action. With that wretched reflection, his afternoon avalanche hit rock bottom and froze in a deep dark gorge. Ray slumped down and huddled into the passenger seat.
After a dreary while, they stopped. He was out of the motor, heading for the entrance with Murphy supervising his progress, when he finally wondered why they were going into a pub.
Murph must have reckoned that Doyle needed a bracer. Maybe he was right. Ray planned on allowing himself to be jollied. He organized it so that he continued bleak and meek throughout the process of finding seats and acquiring sustenance. Then he picked at things a few moments, only gradually evolving the appearance of returning appetite and good humour.
Well it wouldn't hurt, would it, to give good old Murph a feeling of job satisfaction?
To ice the Christmas cake, Doyle described in detail the Old Man's joke about tainted tosheroons and whatnot, which tale soon had Murphy smiling genially.
When Bodie entered the pub, Doyle jumped in startlement. He wasn't exactly sure why he should feel guilty about sharing a laugh and a jar with Murphy, but he did.
It didn't mitigate matters when Bodie acted the part of the offended partner. "Tut, Raymond, malingering without me? I'm 'urt and 'eartsick, I am."
Murphy came to the rescue. "At ease, Sergeant. I've only just dragged the poor fellow up from the pit of despair, so leave off. And fetch another round, will you, Will?"
It was a stab right to the heart. Murphy had a chummy first name by which to call Bodie, and Doyle hadn't. After that, despite his resolve to be ordinary good company, Ray gradually sank into silent contemplation. He only rallied when he perceived the other two staring at him.
Bodie was wondering who had taken the tauroctony. And Murphy was supposing it might have been an unknown burglar, a case of breaking and entering after all. This was a clumsy and transparent ruse to draw Doyle back into the conversation.
It only succeeded because Ray was weary of his private thoughts. "Supposing the presence of anonymous guilty third parties is the last resort of the incompetent," he informed them with constabulary authority.
They grinned like matched gargoyle bookends, and declared themselves delighted to acknowledge his expertise.
"Right then. Who dunnit?" Bodie demanded, rubbing his hands together over the prospect of playing at detectives.
"Hmm. Let's pursue this logically, in traditional fashion, shall we?" Doyle acknowledged his partner's glee. "The tauroctony used to be in the Colonel's safe and now it isn't. Why would anyone want to take it? Bodie, what do you think?"
"It's valuable. Somebody took it to flog it for cash."
"Monetary motives. Always believable, Adam and Eve's spawn being what they are," Doyle nodded approval. "Now, what person or persons with access to the safe were hard up for cash? Murphy, your turn."
"The household staff."
"Possible but improbable. If the butler and cook dunnit, why didn't they steal the jewelry as well? Much easier to unload for profit than a great awful chunk of marble, art which is rare and recognizable, with a very limited market."
"They were hoping the theft would go unnoticed, which it did. By the time it was discovered, the trail would have grown cold, which it has."
"Also possible, although you imagine quite a bit of calculating wile there, which would be out of character for people who have shown themselves reliable for decades. So you'll forgive me if I rate that suggestion rather unlikely as well."
"Fair enough."
"Let's set money aside for the moment," Ray touched the side of his nose, nodding at his students in sleuthing. He was getting into the spirit of things now. "What other motives might there be? Come on, lads, use your imaginations here. No clue? Right, I'll give you a nudge. If Mabel Mestairs took the tauroctony, why might she do it, other than money?"
"Spite?" Bodie suggested, his brow crinkled in intense contemplation. "It belonged to the Colonel's first wife. Maybe he loved her better and Mabel hates the idea?"
"That's using your noggin," Doyle knocked on Bodie's forehead as if it were a wooden door. "No echo, full of grey matter. I like your imagination, old son. Now then to Murphy, a question in the same vein. How about the Colonel? Why might he steal his own tauroctony?"
Murphy scrunched his face in cerebration. "I'm afraid I'm right back to filthy lucre. He's insured it for oodles, and he wants the assurance company to cough up now. Made some bad investments, that sort of thing, and he finds himself inconvenienced for want of pin money."
"Less creative than Bodie's suggestion," Doyle judged.
At which statement, Bodie elbowed Murphy, who actually stuck his tongue out in return, much to Ray's amusement.
"Still, we'll let it pass, since it's at least a formal possibility. Although you should be aware, the assurance company investigators are no pushovers; they tend to be a well paid lot, and therefore canny or canned."
"What about Willby and Aellwyn, then, since we're busy maligning the family?" Bodie smirked.
"Speaking out of turn," Murphy complained in an overdone whine.
"Well, let's hear it. What might be a motive for the next generation, gone rotten?" Doyle rolled his eyes.
"Resentment against Mabel," Murphy hastily took over. "Wicked step-mother and all that classic line. The cousins have conspired to lift the object, feeling it deserves better than to be locked up in a safe."
"Hmm, interesting."
"Hey, that's my idea," Bodie hard-kneed Murphy's leg under the table. "I was gonna say that and you stole it, you weasel."
"Did not. Thought of it on my own. Besides which, it's a stupid idea. I can't imagine either of them even thinking of stealing anything, much less acting upon a plan."
"Neither can I," Bodie shrugged at Murphy and grinned apologetically at Doyle.
"I shall yield to present authority," Doyle decreed graciously, "under the category of 'know thy subjects', which you both do better than I. Which leaves one class of suspects still to consider. Soldiers, AKA the Colonel's Command."
Bodie and Murphy stopped smiling and clamped shut their respective gnashers on any replies they might be tempted to make.
"Oh, right, I do recall," Doyle stated wryly. "Sacred vows of silence, comrades at arms and all that. Which means that you two pretty much have to review roll call on your own, since you're the ones who know your cult's membership. But someone ought to consider power as a motivation for theft. Maybe one of your lot reckons to break away, start his own Mythraic Mystery with the ancient idol in hand. He knows he'll never rise above Leo status in your group, and he rather fancies himself as a Pater."
"It's not like that," Murphy objected.
Bodie shoved him harshly. "Shut up. The crafty little toad is baiting you for the sake of his interrogation."
"All right, all right, no need to resort to violence," Murphy retorted.
Using his raised beer glass as cover, Doyle grinned wickedly, having heard all that he hoped.
****^^^^****
There came a vast celestial roar.
The cosmos shifted.
Queasy, headachy, ready to gip, he twisted in torment, wrenching open his eyes.
Doyle expected the black of night, but got mysterious silvery grey instead. Where the hell? His hands were numb and he seemed to be lying on them. There was a sound of chanting in Latin which throbbed in unison with the artery in his jaw. Bizarre.
Somewhere nearby, water trickled and dripped musically into a bronze urn.
He really didn't want to vomit on himself, but found it impossible to turn onto his side. He swallowed hard. His tongue was sour and desiccated. Desperately he clenched his abdominal musculature, willing his guts not to rise any further. Peristalsis in reverse, gruesome. Not gonna puke, he told himself. Once he got going at that, he felt he never would be able to stop.
Doyle groaned, and immediately panicked that he might have called attention to his dreary corner. What he could glimpse of his surroundings was terrifying. It was a clammy dank vault capturing vague space, formed of rough stone walls but with a hint of starry sky where the ceiling ought to be. Or were those glistening bits just patterns in mosaic, depicting the constellations?
His scummy, blurred vision could not discriminate.
He shivered, sweaty and miserable, and scanned down to see if there might be some cover he could writhe under to warm himself. He was nude, and his flesh appeared all mottled shades with greenish haloes in an indeterminate light, which flickered around him from an unseen source. What ought to be a sheet or blanket proved to be an embroidered cloak. He managed to nudge his bare feet under the cloth.
A metallic rattle captured his attention. In the distance stood a solemn group. Soldiers certainly, but clad in ancient garb, bristling with swords and spears. One contubernium, with a second squad carefully aligned behind the first.
Roman soldiers! In spite of his fear, Doyle felt inexplicably thrilled at the view. Their officer, proud in profile, stood reviewing his men. A centurion, glorious in red tunic and gleaming armor, wore a helmet crested with a horsehair plume. At his order, the men, legionarii all, grim veterans of ancient wars, drew and presented daggers, then pounded the pugio hafts rhythmically against the leathern breastplates of their chainmail.
Doyle wondered if they were preparing to stab something, a sacrifice perhaps. But he could see no hapless animal, and reminded himself it was several days yet until the winter solstice.
"Splendid, aren't they?"
Doyle's heart leaped painfully in alarm, almost bursting out of his chest. He turned his head toward the shadows. "Willby?" he croaked.
"I'm not really supposed to be here, which is why they can't see me. I'm not a soldier, not allowed to witness the mysteries. But the tauroctony is mine, handed down to me from the Mater," he confided. "So here I am."
"Help me."
"Eh? Speak up, can't quite make you out."
"Shh! They'll hear you. Hurry up and unfasten my hands."
"I'm afraid that's quite out of the question."
"You mean, you're with them?"
"Of course I am, in spirit at least."
"Well, I'm bloody well not, so untie me and I'll get out."
"So beautiful," Willby stroked the tauroctony, which was settled across his knees. "The stars of the galaxy, there in the palm of my hand. This represents the precession of the equinoxes. The bull is the constellation Taurus of course, the dog is Canus major, then here's Scorpio, Hydra, and Leo. Your cloak is the whole of the Milky Way. There's glory for you."
"My cloak?" Doyle kicked at the glittering black cloth tangled around his numb feet.
"Of course, my Liege Lord Mithras."
"I'm not Mithras."
"Yes you are. You admitted it to me in my office."
"You're nutty as a fruitcake. Hey, the brandy! You put something into my glass, didn't you?"
"How do you know it wasn't Murphy or Bodie? Went drinking with them afterwards, didn't you?"
Doyle paused to consider that. "They wouldn't drug me."
"Why not? They had to bring you here somehow, your presence is necessary for the solemnities. Just ask Murphy. I'll call him over, shall I?"
Doyle stared at the handsome centurion. Murphy? Couldn't be, could it? Ray shuddered uncontrollably. "Where's Bodie?"
"Oh, doubtless nearby. Those two are seldom far apart. Comrades at arms through the millennia, oaths of constancy, all that brave intent. Admirable, isn't it?"
Bodie was still his partner. Bodie would save him. Doyle believed it, heart and soul.
"There he is now. Magnificent, isn't he?"
Bodie was Primus pilus, senior centurion of the legion, commander of the first cohort. He was brilliant in crimson and gleaming body armor, with a leather cingulum cinched around his sturdy torso, and bright greaves clasping his muscular calves.
Pride of place glittered fiercely in his eye. He looked directly at Doyle and then straight through him like a thrown javelin finding and piercing beyond the killing mark.
Ray struggled against his bonds. Suddenly a threatening shadow loomed over him, hand raised, wielding a dagger. Doyle screamed as the blade plunged. The tearing pain was horrible.
He looked down at his bloodless chest. A sprig of holly pierced him to the heart, the shining green leaves throbbing there with each beat of his life's pulse.
"Holly golly," someone said, and they all laughed.
His hands came suddenly free from constraint and he rolled away from his assailant, crashing straight into the hard marble tauroctony.
Willby shouted hilariously, "Astral chaos ensues."
When Doyle hit his bedroom floor, it jarred his bad leg. Grateful he hadn't landed directly on his healing wound, he crawled woozily to the lav and made it there just in time to vomit accurately at the porcelain target.
Perhaps he shouldn't have taken those tablets after all. He'd waited before swallowing them, quite awhile after drinking at the pub, until he was ready to pass out into his bed from exhaustion. Probably hadn't been long enough though. Vowing never again to drink 'for medicinal purposes', no matter how well intentioned the offer from friends treating him to the next round, he brushed his teeth and eagerly drank off a refreshing tumbler of water.
Gradually his head cleared and his stomach settled.
He phoned for a taxi. By the time it arrived, he was dressed for an adventure on a crystal cold December night. A subterranean mystery awaited his investigation.
****^^^^****
This time, when he paid an excessive tip to the cabbie, it was with intent, to wit, fending off justifiable suspicion.
Doyle felt acutely aware that neither his appearance nor his speech were consistent with playing the role of cultured chartered accountant. Just nipped round for some paperwork left at his offices next to, yeah, right, her regal nibship The Bank of England. Standing in front of Wilberforce Mestairs' office door, Ray fumbled with his keys in the not nearly dark enough moonlight, until the taxi driver finally got fed up watching him and drove away.
Striving to keep his crutch from sinking into the thin strip of mud that skirted the structure, Doyle hiked around the square of historic buildings. He confirmed his earlier impression that there were numerous small iron-grated vents, implying the presence of underground rooms.
Then he returned to pick Willby's lock.
It was petty of Ray, but he didn't feel at all guilty. He just wanted to see if there was anything comparable to the mithraeum of his nightmare vision, skulking in the basement here. The idea didn't come into consideration, that Murphy and Bodie, being the Colonel's men, might be welcome inside whereas Doyle wasn't.
He told himself he didn't resent it, well, not much, anyway.
Since there were multiple locks and bolts, it took him a few minutes to get inside. Then, torch in hand, he explored the hall, ready to scarper in the event the police arrived. They didn't, and after waiting a sufficiently prudent pause, Doyle explored every exit in the establishment.
Inside a passage-pantry used to shelve office supplies, he discovered a small door inset in the far wall, and beyond this, a narrow flight of stairs leading steeply down. He had to abandon his crutch here, but there was a rough hewn banister to aid him in his descent.
He found three basement levels below Willby's offices. Doyle dubbed them Hades One, Hades Posh, and The Friggin' River Styx. The deepest level was all weeping surfaces and dripping edges, with a neatly bricked, slimy gutter that conducted a murky rivulet out of the place.
In contrast, Hades One was dry and dusty, an extremely close space of blackened surfaces, which must have been the coal drop in earlier decades.
Off the middle landing was Hades Posh, an interesting room as viewed in the weird platinum beam of Doyle's torch. In here, he could stand upright with headroom to spare, though disappointingly, the ceiling didn't feature a glittering Roman mosaic depicting the galaxy. A bit of mist did cling there, however, crept up from The Friggin' River Styx through unseen crevices, adding a hint of secret menace.
Along one wall were some stacked plank pallets, which had most likely been used as supports for transporting heavy goods. Doyle preferred to think of them as klinai, and imagined them bedecked with cushions, with Murphy and Bodie in their centurion finery, reclining on them in comfort while a secret banquet was consumed, part of the Mythraic Mystery rites for the winter solstice.
Or not, Doyle shrugged, feeling the weariness of the hour seep into the marrow of his limbs. As he turned to leave, the torch beam fractured over an imperfection in the farthest wall. Limping deeper into the gloom, Ray discovered a ponderous oak barrel hiding behind it a low, cramped exit. The paint on the door was cracked and peeling. A warning printed across it admonished: 'Do NOT Block' and in smaller, crumbling, poorly legible print, 'London Building Acts 1939' and "Wartime Contraventions'.
Not exactly a discovery of brilliant archaeologic import, Ray chuckled. This time he was more than ready to depart, when suddenly the exit moaned.
"What the hell?"
Former Detective Constable Doyle instantly took charge of the scene. In his experience, doors did not make such animate noises. He grabbed the awkward rusted latch and rattled it. Then he crouched, all his weight hard upon his good leg, and pressed his sinewy shoulders against the wood. Once, twice, and on the third shove, the entire barrier, frame and all, fragmented in a rotten cloud of sawdust, splinters and paint chips.
Doyle hurtled forward and plunged down, landing with a bony crunch on top of a body.
By the reek of the thing, it was a gory corpse.
[continued in Part 3]
[And many thanks to you dear people who have been commenting along the way. Nice not to be a lone voice in the vast universe!]
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Date: 2008-12-16 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-16 03:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-16 09:32 am (UTC)Bodie was Primus pilus, senior centurion of the legion, commander of the first cohort. He was brilliant in crimson and gleaming body armor, with a leather cingulum cinched around his sturdy torso, and bright greaves clasping his muscular calves. Well, my considered comment on that little image is ... guuuuh.
Hades One, Hades Posh, and The Friggin' River Styx. hee! (see, I'm very considered this morning)
And by golly a cliffie *claps excitedly, trots off to part 3*
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Date: 2008-12-16 03:40 pm (UTC)I have thought about trying my hand at drawing Doyle as Mithras and Bodie as Primus pilus. It would be fun, but bound to be disappointing, the real thing falling short of the image in my imagination. Maybe in pastels and Conte crayons, soften the edges a bit.
I felt Doyle's naming navigational points in the basement was utilitarian, less awkward than having to keep describing where I meant things to happen. And it was a chance for Ray's humor to be displayed a little.
Bless you for acknowledging the cliffie, life is now complete for the writer [heh].
Thanks for very kind replies.
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Date: 2008-12-16 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-16 08:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-17 03:14 pm (UTC)I've been buying the cheap-o reading glasses over the counter at the least expense possible, which works, but they are only good for reading. Look up from the printed page and I'm dizzy from the warped view. It does make for interesting scenarios doing ambulance work. [I had to invest in a shatterproof case for me specs]. Picture if you will, Asy all togged out in helmet and protective gear, a crashed truck half over an embankment, mid-rescue op, one of the [young, buff, slightly scornful] firefighters demands "What's the warning on the containers in the back there? Do we need to call for Haz Mat?" And Asy replies, "Hang on a moment, I'll get me glasses out of me pocket." And oops, the specs are in an inner pocket. Yeah, right?
I dearly love reading aloud. But hmm, I suppose if the podficcage thing takes off, I would have to consign my Pros fics to a designated reader. Even when I've been in the UK again for awhile, there is always a slight Texas twang to my speech, heh.
But I'm way enthusiastic. Pros PodFics, excellent notion that.
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Date: 2008-12-17 03:46 pm (UTC)Yay. Pros PodFics. I'm working on it *g*
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Date: 2008-12-18 02:10 pm (UTC)Well, wow, seriously excited about the prospect. Terrific idea, go for it mega.
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Date: 2008-12-17 12:36 pm (UTC)And that's quite a cliffhanger , me dear.. ::scurries off to part 3::
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Date: 2008-12-17 03:24 pm (UTC)I tried to make it up to Murphy, later in the story, but don't know if it succeeds. It seems it takes a hundred kind words or more to make up for just one irritable one, doesn't it?
Thanks so much for replying, and especially in medias res. Poor little part two was looking a bit forlorn in the middle there.
So, mince pies, macaroons, many and much be upon you for dropping by with kind comments.