Sharpe instantly replied, “Marylebone?”
Tatham, in a world of his own, simply said, “Come, follow.”
Sharpe gave chase, asking Tatham, “Do you mean Marylebone? Near the cemetery of the same name?”
“It's within walking distance, but sealed underground, you see. Is that important to you?”
“Could be… could be,” muttered Sharpe. He drew Jessica aside, and after a studious look into her eyes, he near whispered, “Marylebone Cemetery also stands well within walking distance to St. Albans.”
“Coincidence?”
“How much coincidence do you believe in one city?” he asked, his eyes never leaving Jessica's.
“I'll have to search the archives for any maps that might be of help, but don't hold your breath,” Tatham told them as he began to desert them here.
Jessica, trying to catch Tatham, who seemed to be fleeing the museum, shouted, “Also, please search for any maps of the time when the mine was last in operation.”
“Showing proximities, you mean?”
“That and anything underground.”
“Underground? Like the tube lines, you mean? There is one such map on display, but you can't possibly have it.”
“You must have copies, something,” suggested Sharpe.
“We may, may not. I will have to search the archives and the shelves.”
“Do that.”
“While you wait, you may wish to study this display,” Tatham trumpeted, his hands flourishing like a magician's. “My triumph,” he finished, pointing at a huge display of the original mine shaft at Marylebone just northwest of Hampstead Heath.
They did indeed study the layout of the mine in its small-scale version. A series of shafts had been cut in several directions, one leading as far as the cemetery it appeared. Another led out to a canal, long since shut down and no longer in use, Sharpe told Jessica. A third one led off in a dead end in the opposite direction, but it opened on a huge, cathedral-sized room where, according to Donald Wentworth Tatham's reconstruction, huge oaken beams, thick as railroad ties, were stored along with any heavy machinery.
“Read the placard. I wrote it myself,” he told them, caressing the glass covering the scale model. According to the placard, the Marylebone Mine had closed down in 1911, played out, no longer economically profitable or feasible, as there had been cave-ins. Few appeared to know of its existence below the streets of London, and even men like Tatham, who appeared to be obsessed by such arcane information, confessed that he had not ever set foot in the mine itself.
They were kept waiting a half hour before Tatham again returned, and further frustrating them, he'd come up empty-handed and apologetic. “It's as though some gremlin simply will not allow them out of hiding. I know we had books and blueprints drawn up by some of the early engineers when they reopened the thing in the late 1800s. It's as if they've been… I fear saying it… stolen. I can't seem to put my finger on the material this moment, but I will assiduously continue to search. You have my word on it.”
“But wouldn't you have had need of the same information when you designed this display?” asked Jessica. “That's right.”
She reached into her purse and pulled forth her petite Nikon, set the automatic flash and was about to snap off a shot, saying, “We can remedy the situation with a single-”
“No… against museum rules to take photos of the exhibits.” Tatham almost shouted. “You know, gift shop and all upstairs. Besides the flash, you know, causes deterioration.”
'Take the photo!” ordered Richard. To Tatham he menacingly said, “Bugger the bloody rules, Mr. Tatham. We 'ave people being murdered by crucifixion. Are you at all interested in the killer's g'd-awful rules?”
“Yes… well, putting it that way,” muttered Tatham as Jessica snapped three shots of the exhibit in order to get the entire thing.
“We'll have these immediately developed and blown up,” she said. Turning to Tatham, she took his hand, shook it, and said, “You may well have helped us put an end to the Crucifier's career, Mr. Tatham. You must find reward in that.”
“Well, yes, of course, but it's actually Dr. Tatham. I received my doctorate in museum affairs and history last month.”
She smiled in return, again thanked him and asked if he could show them out.
“Hold on a moment,” said Sharpe. “Have you a similar exhibit of the canals?”
“The canals?” asked Tatham.
Jessica asked in tandem, “The canals?”
“London is littered with canals. The maps're dotted with them, and many-most, actually-are no longer serviceable. Others are put in use only in times of storm, as runoff. I'm curious to know where this one, on your display, originates.”
“Perhaps if I had the original notes on the project. They will surface, of course. If you took one peek into my office, you'd understand the… the disarray. I know the research is somewhere at hand, but this particular canal stuck out for me. I recall it from my research and the building of the replica.”
“And why is that?”
“Associated with it, the canal, that is, is an ancient bridge, a clapper bridge.”
“Really? And why hasn't it become an archaeological dig then?” asked Sharpe. 'Too far from downtown to bother tearing up the streets to get at?”
Tatham gave a nervous laugh at Sharpe's joke. “Funding dictates everything in the archaeological and historical spheres, Inspector.”
“All right, then, about your notes.”
“Yes, well, when I can-”
“Locate them and fax a copy to Scotland Yard to my attention. The number is here on my card.” Sharpe pushed the card at Tatham. “No unnecessary delays, man. This is of vital importance to the Crown, you realize. You could be saving a life, and in doing so, perhaps currying a bit of favor with the Royal Family could save your dark little concern here.” Richard's eyes roved the room as he threw Tatham this suggestive bone.
Jessica only half listened, still wondering precisely what a clapper bridge might be.
“If you're actually onto his game, the Crucifier's that is,” replied Tatham, his wheels within wheels behind his eyes now turning. “I suppose my helping you out couldn't hurt my career.”
Sharpe breathed inward, taking a deep sigh with his inhaling.
“Can you get us back up to street level and out. Dr. Tatham?” asked Jessica.
“Of course, back this way.”
Jessica, following in single file behind Tatham, Richard at her back, felt as if they were stumbling about in a confusing, crisscrossing, tuming-in-on-itself maze, not only here in the pit of the ancient museum with its ancient artifacts and displays, but outside, in the real world above, on this bizarre case that she had signed onto; she feared that somehow Luc Sante, his church, the strange-sounding Marylebone Cemetery, the Roman mine, the canal, something called a clapper bridge, Father Strand, Richard Sharpe, and Jessica Coran had all come to this place and time in a preordained fashion, that somehow they must do batde against evil, to force it into the light of the millennium in order to see the true face of evil in all its ugliest manifestation.
They finally found ground level and sunlight from the waning day. Outside, they both breathed deeply of the sweeter air. They stood talking on the steps of the RIBA, feeling small below giant columns on either side.
“You keep coming back to this Marylebone Cemetery and St. Albans, Richard. That whole area.”
“Aye, things appear pointed in this direction, yes.”
“You can't seriously believe that Father Luc Sante is conducting some sort of bizarre cult ritual involving the crucifixion of men and women below the streets of London in an ancient mine shaft somehow connected to St. Albans, can you?” she asked Richard as they climbed into his car.
“All the dirty little cow paths keep returning us to the man's neighborhood, you must agree. Despite all that we know about the man-his cloth, his rational nature, his reputation. I keep finding St. Albans in the bitter mix of this atrocious stew. We all know appearances are often deceiving, and those who have their houses in order are often the messiest of beings in private.”
“I can't believe it of Luc Sante. I simply can't.”
