The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

He swivelled on the high stool where he perched at his study table, and penetrated his friend Malinferno with a firm gaze. The young man had rushed into his study, hidden high under the eaves of Bromhead’s rickety house in Bermondsey, with a look about him that suggested the devil was on his tail. Which did not surprise him, as Malinferno was often getting into scrapes. He had been surprised, however, by the young man’s earnest request for a commission that might take him out of London. He knew Malinferno was obsessed with this new craze for all things Egyptian, set in motion by old Nappy Bonaparte. Why all that Egyptian stuff should matter to an Englishman, Bromhead could not fathom. But then, Malinferno was half Italian, so there was no understanding his mind. He addressed his visitor again, taking care to use his proper name, which he knew irritated Joe Malinferno beyond measure.

‘But first tell me, Giuseppe, why you want to assist me, when you have nothing but scorn for my researches.’

The pale-faced Malinferno shook his head vigorously, wide-eyed with denial.

‘No, no, Augustus, old friend. I have nothing but respect for your studies of English history. Did I not help you with your examination of King Arthur’s bones?’

Bromhead snorted. ‘Indeed you did, and nearly lost them to body-snatchers and anatomists in the process. I will not trust you with such precious items in the future. However, there is an excavation I want carried out, which I am unable to supervise myself.’

Malinferno groaned. ‘Not more old bones? Arthur’s bones only got me into trouble, and I am trying to avoid trouble at the moment.’

Bromhead squinted at Malinferno over his little, gold-rimmed spectacles, the light from the fire turning his gaze red. But the young man would not supply any further information about the fix he was obviously in. Bromhead smiled secretively.

‘No, it is not bones this time.’ He paused dramatically. ‘It is treasure.’

Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This was more like it – he liked the idea of digging up treasure.

‘Where is this treasure?’

‘In a moment. First, take a look at this. It is a map drawn up many years ago by Christopher Hawkins of Bath. I found it with the text of a poem he had written about Arthur. An awful poem, by the way.’

Bromhead reached across his desk, and pushed over to Malinferno an old crackly parchment. When he looked at it, he saw an outline of what looked like an island with a series of crosses and arrows marked on it. Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This had all the hallmarks of a treasure map. He looked enquiringly at Bromhead.

‘Where is this island?’

‘Island? It is Solsbury Hill, near Bath.’

Malinferno had fretted for days about how to get to Bath in order to launch his treasure hunt on nearby Solsbury Hill. With no money to get him down there, he was stuck in London despite Augustus’ offer. Then a chance meeting with Thomas Elder as he wandered disconsolately around the British Museum had given him part of the solution. A commission in Bath to unroll an Egyptian mummy turned up, something he had done before for the fashionable élite. And it gave him the chance to take Doll with him too. They already had a good act with which to impress their wealthy clients. The trip to Bath was assured, and the dangers of London could be left behind.

Unfortunately, when they got to Bath, he found his reward – their reward – had proved niggardly. The three guineas paid by the duchess would still not be enough to bankroll Bromhead’s project.

‘I don’t know how we are going to get to the site with all the tools we need. The duchess is very sparing with her advance remuneration.’

He jangled the gold coins in his pocket, and looked at Doll. She was draped – dressed was too generous a word to use – in the light muslin shift that she was to wear as Hathor. It did little to hide her charms, which was all to the point. She had been promenading in Bath before returning to the tiny attic room she shared with Malinferno in Cheap Street. He could not help but wonder what the experience had done for the popinjays who frequented the resort. He could imagine the effect of the light from the flaming torchères that lit the Roman baths as they played on her body. Lit from behind, Doll would have appeared naked. An effect she meant to cultivate, as they needed a gullible sponsor for the enterprise that had really brought them to Bath. Apparently, despite a night of debauchery, no more money had been forthcoming.

He looked at the ravishing form of Doll Pocket again, and sighed. But then a thought occurred to him, and he reached over to the bed. Eagerly, he extracted from the deep pocket of his greatcoat two of his most treasured possessions and laid them on the baize-covered card table they were using as both dining and occasional table. He had purloined both items when doing some cleaning work for Thomas Elder at the BM. They had to be worth something.

The scarab beetle glimmered blood red in the evening light that filtered through the dusty windowpanes. But despite its beauty, Malinferno’s gaze was drawn instead to the papyrus scroll. Cautiously, he unrolled it, praying that it would not crack into fragments. He was in luck. The ancient fragment opened up to reveal a glorious, multi-coloured spectacle of hieroglyphs. As yet, no scholar had been able to decipher these antique symbols, but Malinferno was determined he would be the one to do so. He had heard of a Frenchman called Champollion who had made some headway. But he had been engulfed in the troubles in France, and no one had heard of him for a while. In England, Thomas Young had toiled for years only to decipher one word. The name – Ptolemy. Malinferno was scornful of his efforts, and knew a golden prize could be in the grasp of the first man to unravel the mystery of the Egyptian writing. He would be that man, and would make a fortune lecturing to the wealthy. Who would then pay far more to hear him than the few paltry guineas he was getting from the duchess.

He reverently touched the surface of the scroll with his fingertips, marvelling at the finely wrought images. But was each symbol a word or a letter? That was the problem.

‘Gawd. I’nt it gorgeous.’

Malinferno started from his reverie, and looked over his shoulder. Doll was tired and her accent was slipping again. She was peering over his shoulder, and her ample bosom, artfully lifted, protruded just at his eye level. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

‘Oh, yes it is, Doll.’

Doll Pocket’s bolstered charms often made a lustful satyr of Joe Malinferno. He licked his lips, as he surveyed Doll’s figure. She barely came to his shoulder, but then he was over six feet tall himself. And her blonde curls were fixed in the latest fashion, with a golden bandeau round them holding in place a frothy feather. A severe band of the same colour drew in her thin muslin dress just below her rounded bosom, emphasising its shape. The dress draped seductively over her well-formed hips, falling to her tiny, slippered feet. Despite the rather rumpled nature of her dress, and her bleary, red-rimmed eyes, which spoke of an unsettled night for Doll, the whole effect was of half-concealed voluptuousness. Malinferno dragged his eyes from her with reluctance, looking once again at the papyrus.

‘Yes. It is a beautiful thing, is it not.’

Doll snorted contemptuously, and yawned, affording Malinferno a good view of her tonsils.

‘Nah. Not that bit of gaudy paper. This.’ She leaned forward, pressing her bosom carelessly against him, and scooped up the little ruby scarab. ‘Can I have it?’

‘No, you can’t.’ Malinferno smiled wryly. ‘Though it would match the colour of your eyes perfectly today.’

Doll pulled a face, and hissed at him cattily. But she did retreat to the oval ormolu mirror that hung over the unlit fireplace.