James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

“We’re both in a difficult position,” St. Ives told him, “and might both do better if we were allies in this. I assure you that I have no distaste for honest smuggling when the need arises. I might ask you to arrange some such thing for me some day. What was it that the Doctor wanted transported into London?”

“A round dozen barrels of coal, taken out of a Neolithic cave very near the Normandy coast.”

“Coal? He could have purchased a hundredweight for a few shillings, delivered to his door.”

“This was… out of the ordinary coal, you might say. Lignite coal, to be certain, but an admixture of carbon, sulfur, old human bones, and other organic debris. Ancient human bones, I might add, kept dry and well preserved by the atmosphere in the cave. There was great expense involved; you would scarcely credit it if I told you.”

“ Your expense, I understand, once the coal was lost, and not Narbondo’s.”

“Yes,” he said unhappily. “The business will come close to ruining me before it’s done.”

“I believe that Narbondo swindled you, Harry. I don’t know quite how, but I intend to find out before I’m through. Indeed, I believe that you and I are caught up in the same net. If I can save my son from his grasp, I’ll see whether I can recover something for you into the bargain.”

“Well,” said Merton, helping himself to more whisky, “I would take that as a kind gesture, certainly I would.”

“Good,” said St. Ives. “Then tell me one last thing. Have you heard of an object known as the Aylesford Skull?”

“Heard of it, yes. I have no idea of its existence, though rumors have arisen over the years. I have my ear to the ground, you know, and I hear all manner of things. To the best of my knowledge the story of the skull is fabulous, although if it existed it would be worth a fortune, and not a small one. No one has seen it or admitted to possessing it. And there’s never yet been a collector who didn’t eventually boast about his treasures, especially something of that magnitude. Human vanity requires it. If it were in someone’s collection, I would know.”

“But something like it, perhaps?” St. Ives asked. “A different example of a skull-lamp, so to speak?”

“Yes, certainly. Such things have been in the hands of collectors for hundreds of years. I’ve heard that they change hands for monstrous sums. The skull of the Duke of Monmouth was so altered. His head, you’ll recall, had been sewn back onto his body after his beheading in order for the corpse to sit for a portrait by Benson. It was removed again afterward and sent to France, where a renowned alchemist fashioned it into such a lamp at enormous expense, allegedly financed by some member of the family, possibly the Earl of Doncaster, although that’s mere rumor. It’s true, however, that the French are particularly keen on them. Marie Antoinette’s skull resides in a particular library in Paris, to my certain knowledge.”

“To what uses are these put, then? Merely decorative?”

“In a sense, yes,” said Merton. “They are so contrived as to project an image of the person the skull belonged to. It’s the image that’s decorative, if you follow my meaning.”

“An image like that of a so-called magic mirror?”

“Considerably more interesting. A moving image, I’m told, much sought after by spiritualists and by people who study the demonic. I’m afraid they’re rather out of my line, though – quite beyond my means despite being of varying quality. If they function at all – cast even a meager representation of a ghost – they had best be kept in a vault for fear of theft.”

St. Ives nodded. “Answer one last question if you please. Would the skull of a child be more valuable to those who fabricate these lamps than that of an adult human being?”

“Your own son?” Merton asked.

“Just so.”

He shook his head at the thought. “Childhood is a time of deep and changing emotion, great wonder, the spirit at its brightest. So, in a word, yes, although a head taken from any living body is similarly energized. It’s a matter of degree, I suppose.”

“A victim of the guillotine, perhaps?” Hasbro asked.

“Indeed,” Merton said. “And I’ll remind you that even a skilled fabricator is only occasionally successful. The reward is great, and there are many inept bunglers who hope one day to succeed. The traffic in potentially useful human skulls is vast, immense sums spent, the results for the most part coming to nothing.”

“Thank you, Harry,” St. Ives said. “I’m sorry to have threatened you. You can understand my need, however.”

“Indeed,” Merton said. “You might put your questions to our good friend William Keeble, by the way.”

St. Ives looked at him with evident surprise. “William Keeble cannot conceivably have any dealings with the sort of people who collect or purvey such things.”

“Oh, indeed not, Professor. I don’t mean to blacken the man’s reputation. But he successfully miniaturized what is referred to as a Ruhmkorff lamp. You’re familiar with them, no doubt? I’m told that the tiny Keeble variation is one of the marvels of the age, although I haven’t seen one myself. It’s said to sit neatly in the palm of one’s hand, and yet it projects an extraordinarily bright light.”

“And so it might lie within the cranial cavity of these reprehensibly contrived skulls?”

“Just so. I was given to believe that the commission came from a highly placed personage, although there was no mention of names, as you can imagine. Keeble might easily have been ignorant of the use that the lamp would be put to. He’s not a worldly man, Professor.”

Hasbro rose from his chair now and nodded toward the street. St. Ives glanced out, but saw nothing of interest. The evening outside was busy enough, with people on foot and carriages passing along Lower Thames Street. Stepping away from their small circle of light into the dimness of the ill-lit shop, Hasbro moved off silently, Merton and St. Ives watching as he made his way toward the shelter of an immense curio cabinet that cast a particularly dense shadow at the corner of the window. After a moment he retraced his steps, sat down in his chair, and said, “It’s our old friend George, sir.”

“You’re certain?” St. Ives asked him. “The last we saw of him he was unhorsed and flying into the shrubbery.”

“He’s making no effort to conceal himself.”

“Tenacious, bold fellow, our George. Alone, is he?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently, although it seems doubtful that he’s as bold as that.”

“He means to follow us, then, and not attack us, you mean?”

“Indeed – has been following us, obviously, since we lost sight of him on the Pilgrims Road.”

Merton was blinking at both of them. “ Attack you? I don’t mean to hurry you away, but I’m late for an appointment. Oh my, yes, very late. Mrs. Merton will flay me alive with a serpent. I regret being inhospitable, but…”

“Quite right,” St. Ives told him. “We’re also on the wing.”

“I’ll just slip out the back,” Hasbro said, “and over the wall. Perhaps we can collar our man and have an informative chat.”

St. Ives nodded. “I’ll go out through the front door in two minutes’ time. We would be fools, however, to allow George to distract us as he has in the past. If we cannot collar him, we’ll let him go about his business and we’ll go about ours. We’ll see him again, and soon, I believe.” He watched as Hasbro disappeared toward the rear of the shop, and began mentally to count the seconds in the efficient manner he had learned as a schoolboy: one elephant, two elephants, three elephants …