The Spirit Well

CHAPTER 33

The French doors of Charles Flinders-Petrie’s study were open to the garden, and the drapes pulled back to allow the fresh air into a room that had been sealed all winter whilst its occupant was away on his foreign travels. Those journeys completed, Charles had returned to a London in the midst of a glorious spring, and he revelled in the balmy day. Outside he could hear a steady snip, snip, snip as Cumberbatch-his caretaker, gardener, and menial-trimmed the box hedge with his long-bladed shears.

The easy rhythm seemed to give shape to his thoughts as he pored over his ledger. The household had functioned reasonably well in his absence, but there were gaps and oversights to be reconciled and rectified. Had he known he would be so long away, he might have made better arrangements. Still, his plans had come right in the end, and the trifling matter of the accounts was nothing that could not be put right with a visit to the bank and a few letters of apology.

All things considered, he was more than satisfied with the result of his latest, and most demanding, labours. He was ready now, to rest and let nature take its course.

There was a stirring of the drapery, but Charles, fully engrossed in his work, thought nothing of it until he heard a brushing step and the creak of wood on the threshold. Glancing up from his reading, he saw a long, thin shadow on the Persian rug, and raised his eyes as the intruder stepped into the room.

“Douglas!” he gasped. “Good heavens, son, you gave me a start.”

“Sorry, Father,” replied the young man. “It was not my intention to startle you.”

“I daresay.” Charles closed his book and stood. “What are you doing creeping around the garden anyway? Why are you here during term?”

“I’m done with Oxford, Father,” said Douglas. He crossed to the leather wingback chair across from the desk and slouched into it. “Or perhaps, Oxford is done with me.”

“Oh, Douglas.” Charles returned to his chair behind the desk. “Do not tell me you have been sent down!”

The young man made a sour face. “I have not been sent down. I have left the place.”

“We have had this discussion before. You must finish your studies.”

“Must I, Father?” he sneered. “Why must I? You never did.”

“Now, see here!”

“No! You see here.” Douglas leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of the desk. “I have been taking orders from you all my life, and I am heartily sick of it. I’m not going back there. I don’t care what anybody says.”

“Lower your voice, Douglas.”

“All those petty potentates swaggering about their tiny fiefdomsnothing but stuffed shirts, gasbags, and idiots, the lot of them.”

“That’s unfair-”

“It is a bloody waste of time.”

“Mind your language in this house!” Charles regarded his wayward son, struggling to keep his temper in check. “What have you done this time, boy?”

“Don’t patronise me!” Douglas stalked in front of the desk, restless, bristling with anger. “I won’t have it.”

“You cannot expect to live here as a guest. You must have work. What do you intend to do?”

“I am taking up the quest,” he replied haughtily. “After all, it is the Flinders-Petrie stock in trade.”

“Oh, Douglas,” his father sighed. “We’ve been over this before. We agreed that you would wait until you finished your studies. If you abandon them now, you will be in no way prepared to meet the challenges you will face.”

“I am ready now.”

Charles studied him for a long moment. “You know that is impossible.”

“Why? Because you say it is?”

“Do we have to go into this all again?” Charles said. “You know how I feel.”

The slender young man stood with his hands at his sides, tight as a coiled spring. “I have come for the map.”

“No. It is out of the question.”

“I’m not leaving here without it.”

“It will do you no good. You do not know how to read it.”

“I’ll learn.”

Charles gave a mirthless laugh. “That I heartily doubt,” he scoffed. “It is not like reading a road map, you know. You must know the code.”

“Then tell me.”

“I will-and gladly-on the day you finish your studies.” His father made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Go back to Oxford. Apply yourself. Show me you can finish something for once in your life.”

“I’ll show you,” Douglas said, lurching for the desk. He snatched up the bronze Etruscan mask his father used as a paperweight. “I’ll show you what I can do. The key-”

“Douglas, you may leave now. This conversation is over.”

“Give me the key, old man.” Douglas hefted the heavy artefact dangerously.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The key to the iron chest,” he snarled. “I want the map. You think I don’t know where you keep it?”

“Don’t be hasty, Douglas. Taking the map won’t get you anywhere. Sit down, let us talk this out.”

“All you ever do is talk. I’m through talking. I want the key to the chest.” Douglas, eyes bulging, his long face red with anger, raised his arm to strike.

“Put that down!” shouted Charles.

“I warned you, Father,” snarled Douglas. On his smooth forehead a vein throbbed visibly like a purple spear of forked lightning as he swung his arm in a murderous arc.

“Douglas!” Charles put up his hands to ward off the attack. “No!”

The weighty bronze smashed into the elder man’s skull. Blood spouted from the gash that opened on the side of his head.

“Douglas, no,” Charles moaned. He grabbed his head. “Think… think what you’re doing. Don’t be stupid. I can’t-”

But the bronze mask landed a crushing blow to Charles’ left temple. Charles lifted himself from his chair. Hands shaking, he beseeched his son in pitiful tones, begging him to stop.

Again and again the brass weight slammed down. The hard bone of the skull cracked under three savage blows. Charles slumped to his knees, his eyes rolling up into their sockets, showing only white. He gave a little groan and toppled slowly to his side. A tremor passed through him, and he lay still.

“Good-bye, Father,” muttered Douglas, dropping the paperweight to the floor beside the body.

Stepping quickly around to the desk, he opened the wide centre drawer and removed the ring of keys he knew would be there. Then, turning to the bookcase in the corner of the room, he pulled out a row of volumes to reveal an iron strongbox, which, though it seemed to rest on the shelf, was instead secured to the wall. He put the first key into the lock and turned; the key met with resistance, and the second key was much too big, so he moved on to the third. The lock gave at once, and he raised the heavy lid.

Inside the strongbox was a gilt-edged leather folder tied with a green ribbon. Douglas snatched up the folder and moved back to the desk. As his fingers fumbled with the satin binding, he heard a sound in the hallway, and there came a knock on the door.

Douglas glanced at once to the body on the floor, his mind racing. How much could be seen from the doorway? What if he were found with the body? Where could he hide?

The knock came again, followed by a voice: “Mr. Flinders-Petrie, sir? There’s a rag-and-bone man come to call. Do you have anything for him?”

It was Silas Cumberbatch, the caretaker.

“Send him away,” Douglas growled in gruff imitation of his father’s tone. “I’m busy.”

“Very good, sir.”

Douglas waited until he heard the footsteps receding. Then, unwilling to further risk being caught with the murdered corpse of his father, he tucked the gold-edged folder under his coat and moved to the French doors. He stepped outside, cast a swift glance around to make sure he was unobserved, then darted across the lawn to the border hedge and a place he knew behind the holly bush where he used to climb over the garden wall as a lad. Once over the wall, he proceeded down the service alley to the road and hailed a cab to take him to Paddington Station.

He bought a ticket and hurried to the platform where the train was waiting, found an empty compartment in one of the carriages, and let himself in. It was only after the train had left the station and was past Ealing and heading for Slough that Douglas removed the leather folder once more.

Setting it on his knee, he carefully untied the strip of green ribbon and opened the cover. Inside was a single piece of paper with a simple handwritten note. It read:

Forgive me, Douglas. It is for the best.

Your loving Father

The Skin Map was gone.