British currency amounting to $24.95 American.
“It barely covers the printing costs. Dr. Coran,” he apologetically added. “But I'm pleased, in the end, that you have taken a copy of my self-published treatise on the subject of the ultimate evil.” Jessica read the book's abbreviated title, without the Jungian preface, giving pause to the words: Twisted Faiths. A tagline read: A History of Fetishism and Cultism in Middle Europe and Great Britain 1400 to Present Day.
Jessica said her good-byes and Strand returned in time to usher her to the door where he smiled and said, “He's a wonderful soul, that man.”
“Yes, I think we can well agree on that.”
“I could do nothing to harm him. Yet here I am taking his one love, St. Albans, from him in a matter of weeks.”
“He seems to have made his peace with it, and he… Well, I daresay he couldn't have selected a better successor. Will you also be doing the trick cyclist's work?” she quipped.
“I have some certification papers to finish up, but yes, as a matter of fact, I will. Regardless of what some think, the Vatican is interested in our carrying on as usual here at St. Albans.”
“Good luck to you then, and I'm sure we'll see one another again.”
“I'm sure.”
He waved her off, the handsome Billy Budd of the place, looking like Richard Chamberlain in his youth, a regal and muscular young turk, she thought. The man was at extreme odds with the old man of St. Albans, so filled was Strand with rich life, earthy color, vigor, and power. He waved to her as she dashed down the walk doing her best to remain dry without an umbrella.
The midday drizzle had turned the sky a gunmetal gray, and the gargoyles far up overhead, guarding St. Albans as it were, wept under the steady drenching they stoically took. Yet, many of the gargoyles enjoyed the wet, even ciphoned off water from the roof, their tubular interiors acting as waterspouts, a utilitarian use of art if Jessica had ever seen it. On the one hand, the statuary stood as sentinels between two worlds, on the other, as sediment- filled drainpipes-quite the concrete opposite of the otherworldly symbolism attaching to the grim-faced stone monsters, and an oddly disproportionate thing to behold, she thought. But then, each day she discovered something new and queer and fascinating about London, England, and with this final thought on the matter, she climbed into the police car left behind for her “transport needs” by the ever thoughtful Inspector Sharpe.
EIGHT
Evil is not only a presence; it infiltrates mankind as the ultimate disease.
Jessica and Sharpe spent the rest of the day in a frustrating effort to gain access to the recently buried Frank Coibby. When they were finally able to get the paperwork, it was learned that Coibby's body had been misplaced. “By order of the Crown that no bodies be buried in the realm,” due to the terrible overcrowding in British cemeteries. It had been for this reason that O'Donahue's body had been cremated into uselessness. Now Coibby simply appeared misplaced, as mortuary after mortuary was being checked.
“I thought you said there'd be no problem with this,” Jessica asked, her rising voice telegraphing frustration.
Frowning, Sharpe replied, “I ordered the body be held intact, funeral service or no, and-”
“Funeral service?”
“Thrown together affair by the estranged family, out of a sense of duty, I suppose. In any case, the mortuary paid by the family for services rendered, such as they were, simply shipped the body out to another mortuary, I am now told.”
“Odd, isn't it?” Jessica wondered if there might not be some hidden agenda in all this.
“A falling out over the billing costs, I'm told, caused the second mortuary to return the body here, but they have limited storage facilities, just as we do at the Yard.”
“And so?”
“The mortician here has the body at his… home.”
“His homeT
“In a full-sized freezer there. Bugger figured to leave it there until such a time as someone came asking for it back.”
“Well, now we're asking,” she huffed.
“Mr. Coibby's body will be returned to the mortuary by 8 a.m. tomorrow,” came back the promise from the mortician, a Mr. Littelle.
And for tonight, Jessica found herself having dinner with Richard Sharpe at the Trafalgar Square's famous Rules restaurant, known for having fortified English stomachs since 1798. They ate quickly so that Sharpe could show her some of the sights and the famous area within walking distance of her hotel room at the York. Richard offered to take her to see Soho by night as well, and that invitation she found far too enticing to turn down. She planned to return another day to take in the nearby National Gallery.
“We will have to motor to West End, but my car is close at hand,” he informed Jessica.
“Yes, wonderful… Soho. I've heard so much about the area.”
Soho didn't disappoint. Jessica was delighted when she found herself on Oxford Street, London's number one shopping street, which history told her had been a road since Roman times. From there, Richard took her through Soho Square, a brooding place, laid out in the 1680s. “See the church there?” asked Richard, pointing to a spiraling steeple.
“Yes.”
“French Protestant. French Huguenots formed the first wave to settle the district, followed by a melting pot of other nationalities, giving the place its international flair while maintaining a villagelike appearance.”
“Much like Greenwich Village in New York,” she replied. “Exactly. That cosmopolitan flavor.”They strolled Frifth Street to Old Compton Street and on to Charring Cross Road, a place lined with fascinating and quaint bookshops. At Cambridge Circus, Richard pointed out the restored Palace Theatre, a fascinating sight, and soon they were on Gerrard Street, a pedestrian-only area in the heart of China Town. Richard asked if she cared for anything to drink as they stood outside the Dragon Inn.
“Yes, a drink would do me well,” she agreeably replied. “But only one.”
“My limit as well,” he warned with a smile. “What would you like?”
“A whiskey sour, perhaps?”
“Hmmm… lovely. My preference as well.”
Richard waved to the bartender, someone he knew from past visits, the moment they stepped through the red doors and into the dark interior. The Asian bartender smiled and nodded, knowing what Richard meant by his two fingers in the air. They found a table where Jessica put down the few small bags, her purchases amassed during their trek.
“I trust you found some real treasures to take back to the States with you,” he commented on the bags.
“Yes, in fact, I have.”
“Good. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself in my city.”
He said my city as if he'd given birth to it; he stated it with pride and passion.
Jessica had never felt so passionate about a place as this man obviously felt toward London, but she could well understand it.
Along their stroll, he'd pointed out places of historical significance and interest, such as the House of St. Barnabas, a 1746 structure that reminded all Londoners of Soho's aristocratic beginnings. He had also pointed out a now charming small hotel named the Hazlitt on Frifth Street, where essayist William Hazlitt died. Richard noted a nearby inn where once Karl Marx and his family lived in abject poverty as well. The area, now cleaned up for the tourist trade, still somehow conveyed the feeling of a place where starving artists and idealists came to die. This lent a melancholy mood to the place, like that found in a cemetery, despite the modem veneer.
