Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

Moon shot him a disdainful look and he withdrew his hand unshaken.

“What’s this about, gentlemen?”

“We’d like to talk to you about one of your flock,” Merryweather said. “A Mrs. Honeyman.”

“I’m so glad someone’s finally doing something. We’re awfully worried here. I’ve been absolutely frantic.”

The inspector took a notepad from his pocket. “How often did you see her?”

“She was one of our most devout members. One of the cornerstones, you might say, a bedrock of our little church.”

“Forgive me for asking” — Merryweather scribbled frantically — “but what is the exact nature of your association with the church?”

“Oh, I’m nothing special,” McDonald said, his modesty unconvincing. “I do a little lay preaching… help out where I can… assist our pastor in his good works.”

“And who is he?”

“It’s him you should be talking to by rights. Our leader, sir. Our shepherd. The Reverend Doctor Tan.”

Merryweather dutifully wrote down the name. “May we speak to this Tan?”

“He’s out of the city at present. I’m a poor substitute, I know, but you’ll have to make do. Normally we’re so much tidier than this.”

Merryweather saw the thick layer of dust blanketing the place and tactfully decided not to comment. “Where is your church, sir? Surely you can’t take services here.”

“Oh.” McDonald sounded vaguely irritated by the question. “We worship… nearby.”

Growing tired of the seesaw of their conversation, Moon had begun to examine the room for himself, nosing about the cupboards, shelves and bookcases, openly curious, brazen in his rummagings. A crucifix hung above the door; below it was a discreet plaque depicting a black, five-petaled flower. Printed beside it were the words “If a man could walk through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and found that flower in his hand when he awoke — what then?”

Donald McDonald wandered across. “I see you’ve found our motto.”

“Motto? I’m afraid I don’t see the relevance.”

“Paradise, Mr. Moon. Elysium. The condition to which we all aspire.”

“This isn’t scripture.”

“S. T. Coleridge. The Reverend Doctor’s a great admirer. Our church reveres him and his work.”

“Coleridge?” Moon was incredulous. “Might I ask what kind of church venerates a secular poet?”

McDonald simpered. “No doubt you find that strange. Many do. Though I can assure you that anyone who spends time amongst us soon comes to appreciate our point of view.”

“The flower beneath the crucifix,” Merryweather asked, trying to wriggle back into the conversation. “What does that represent?”

“A motif we’ve appropriated from Greek mythology.” Donald McDonald summoned up a faraway look. “The immortal flower which blooms in Paradise for poets — amaranth .”

“What’s the point of this?” Moon spat. “What is it you people do?”

“We’re missionaries.”

“Missionaries? In Covent Garden?”

“The Reverend Doctor sees no reason to travel out of England when there is so much spiritual poverty, so much pain and deprivation, on our doorstep. London is in greater need of the cleansing light of revelation even than the darkest recesses of the Congo. Our work is done here amongst the forgotten people, those abandoned by the city, left to rot in the slums and in the hopeless places.”

“We’ve heard enough.” Moon turned smartly on his heel and headed for the door. “Come along, Inspector.”

“You will let us know if there are any developments?” McDonald asked, his voice dripping spurious concern, ersatz sympathy. “Mrs. Honeyman is in my prayers.”

The inspector followed Moon from the room. “Didn’t believe a word of it,” he said once they had emerged onto the street. “Man knows more than he’s telling. You?”

“I’m not sure,” Moon admitted. “This latest development is — I confess — unexpected.”

“What was all that business about the plaque?”

“Coleridge,” Moon said mysteriously.

“Is there some significance?”

“Are you a poetry-lover, Inspector?”

“Not seen a word of the stuff since school.”

“Then at least you’ve learnt one valuable lesson today.”

“What’s that?”

“Read more.”

Later that evening, lulled by the rhythmic snoring of his wife, just as he was about to go to sleep, Inspector Merryweather would think of rather an amusing retort to this. But he would know that the moment had passed, and would roll over instead and hope for pleasant dreams.

Moon seemed excited. “Did you recognize the flower beneath the crucifix?”

“Seemed pretty unremarkable to me.”

“We found the same sigil outside the Human Fly’s caravan.”

Merryweather shrugged. “Coincidence?” He looked about him. “Besides, aren’t you forgetting somebody?”

“Who?”

“The Somnambulist.”

Regretfully, Mr. Skimpole put aside his fourth cup of tea since he had left the Directorate for the day, reflecting as he did so that the sound of a teacup clinking into its predestined place on a saucer was one of life’s small but perfect pleasures. There was something indefinably comforting about it, something soothing and warm and British. “Are you sure you don’t know when he’ll be back?”

On hearing the question, Mrs. Grossmith felt a deeply uncharacteristic urge to unleash a scream of rage and frustration — in part at the albino’s bloody-minded persistence but also at a bottled-up lifetime of tireless obedience to the whims of infuriating men. She restrained herself. “No,” she said, trying not to let her irritation show. “I’ve no idea where he is or when he’ll be home. Mr. Moon’s quite capable of disappearing without warning for days or weeks at a time. Once, when he was investigating that Crookback business, he was gone for the best part of a year.”

After the unpleasantness of the morning, Skimpole had wanted to speak to Moon, only to find him vanished. It was at times like this that he regretted honoring his promise to retire the conjuror’s shadow.

“More tea?” Mrs. Grossmith asked, secretly willing the man to refuse.

Skimpole waved the offer away and relief showed immediately in Grossmith’s face.

“I’ve outstayed my welcome, haven’t I?”

“Not at all.” The housekeeper’s smile was strained but still in place. Strange to think that there was a time when she had found this man a figure of menace.

The albino heaved a maddening sigh and sank further back in his chair. “Changed my mind,” he said. “On second thoughts I’d love another cup. Is there any chance…?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Grossmith said wearily.

As the housekeeper ministered to the teapot, Skimpole murmured: “I almost died today.”

“Sorry?” she asked, palpably uninterested. “What was that?”

Before he could reply, Arthur Barge strolled into the room. “Still here?”

“Evidently.”

“It’s just that I was planning to take Mrs. G. up to town. Give her a little treat. I reckon she deserves it. We’re both men of the world, Mr. Skimpole. I’m sure you understand my meaning.”

“Not entirely, no.”

“Lord knows if Moon will be back tonight. If I were you, I’d go home.”

Grudgingly, Skimpole got to his feet. “Then I’ll go.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you were here, sir,” said Mrs. Grossmith.

“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. It’s imperative that I speak with him.”

Barge ushered their guest to the door. “We’ll see you then, sir. I’ll look forward to it.”

The albino had barely stepped from the room and the door closed behind him before the air was filled with squeals of delight, shrieks and wails of lascivious pleasure — the earthy sounds, strangely troubling to Skimpole’s ears, of senescent romance. He rolled his eyes and headed home.