‘What is it?’ asked Nightingale.
Wainwright studied the markings on the side of the urn. ‘No idea, but these are runes, so I’m guessing it’s some herb used in Druid magic.’ He put the urn back and took out another one. ‘These pots are hundreds of years old, by the look of them.’ He sniffed the contents of the second urn and then put it back. He walked over to the next display case, which was full of crystal balls of different sizes and colours. Wainwright peered at the balls.
‘Be careful with them,’ said Nightingale.
‘They’re only crystal balls,’ said Wainwright.
‘Friend of mine looked in one and saw his own death.’
Wainwright straightened up and looked over at Nightingale. ‘Which one?’
‘It smashed,’ said Nightingale. ‘He saw himself being run over by a cab. He dropped it and it broke.’
‘They shouldn’t smash. They’re solid crystal.’
‘This one did. Smashed to smithereens, it was.’
‘And you’re saying what? He saw his own death?’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.’
‘That’s unusual,’ said the American, rubbing his chin.
‘You’re telling me.’
‘No, I mean that’s not how crystals work. Not normally. They’re tools for mediums or fortune tellers; if you don’t have the skills you’re just staring into glass.’
‘I’m just telling you what happened.’
‘He was a good friend?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘We were cops together. My best mate.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack. Is it him you want to talk to?’
‘No. He was the one I tried the Ouija board with but that didn’t work out. It’s a young girl I want to talk to now. Actually, I think she’s been trying to communicate with me but she can’t quite manage it. I thought there was maybe something I could do that might make it easier for her.’
Next to the cabinet containing the crystal balls was something that had been covered with a black velvet cloth. It was a few inches taller than the American. Wainwright pointed at it with his cigar. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Go ahead. I’ve no idea what it is.’
Wainwright pulled the cloth away. It was a mirror framed with old wood that had gone black with age. The frame was made up of dozens of carved animals, but animals the like of which Nightingale had never seen.
‘Interesting,’ said Wainwright, peering around the back of the mirror. ‘Do you have any idea what this is, Jack?’
‘A mirror?’
‘Not just any mirror. A black mirror. Some call it a dark mirror. And this is a beauty.’ He draped the cloth over a cabinet then took a long drag on his cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke up at the ceiling.
Nightingale walked over to the American. ‘What’s so special about it?’
Wainwright gripped the sides of the mirror. It was heavy and he grunted as he turned it around. The back of the mirror was a single piece of aged oak, held in place with brass screws. The American rapped the wood with his knuckles. ‘The difference is behind here,’ he said. ‘In a regular mirror, the back is silvered. But for a dark mirror you use black paint, or black tape. Either will do the job. But for a real Satanic dark mirror they use paint containing blood. Human blood.’
‘What?’
‘In England they used to use the blood from a corpse taken from the gallows, the fresher the better.’ He rapped the back of the mirror again. ‘The age of this, I’d guess that’s what was used here.’
‘A dead man’s blood?’
‘Not just any dead man, Jack. To work it has to be blood taken from a criminal who’s been executed. And the worse the criminal, the better. Child-killers and serial rapists would be top of the list, pretty much.’
‘And what would you use it for?’
‘A regular dark mirror is used for scrying.’
‘Scrying?’
Wainwright grinned. ‘I keep forgetting what an innocent you are in all this,’ he said. ‘Scrying is all about using your inner eye to perceive or to discern what’s normally hidden.’ He laughed. ‘Sounds like mumbo-jumbo, but it’s not. It’s almost a science and anyone can do it with practice. Witches tend to use crystal balls or dark mirrors, Druids stare at pools of dark water, and I know of some Tibetan monks who stare at a wet fingernail.’
Nightingale looked at the American, trying to work out if he was joking or not but he seemed to be serious.
‘The thing you look at is almost irrelevant. Scrying is about opening up the inner eye. It’s all about gazing without focusing. Allowing the inner eye to see.’
‘Like fortune telling?’
‘You can look forward or back. See something that has already happened or predict the future. But a dark mirror like this is more for communing with spirits.’
‘The dead, you mean?’
‘Spirits that have passed on. Sure.’ He ran his hand over the intricate carving. ‘How much do you want for this?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I suppose I could put it on eBay and see what the going rate is for a dark mirror.’
‘How about I give you fifty grand?’
‘Dollars?’
‘Is that you bargaining?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Fifty grand is fine,’ he said. ‘I guess you don’t want to take it with you?’
‘I’ll have it collected.’ He went over to a display case that was full of ceremonial knives, some of them with dried blood on the blades. Wainwright bent down and peered at the knives on one of the lower shelves. ‘He had an eye for quality, your father.’
Nightingale stroked the carvings down the side of the mirror. There was a snake, a lizard, and something with six legs and menacing claws. The wood was cold to the touch, as if it was sucking the heat from his flesh. The mirror was as dark as a pool of oil, still wreathed in the smoke from Wainwright’s cigar. As Nightingale stared into the mirror, he realised that the smoke was on the other side of the glass. He reached out and realised with a jolt that there was no reflection: he was just reaching towards darkness and smoke.
‘Jack!’
Nightingale jumped as Wainwright’s hand fell on his shoulder. Wainwright pulled him away from the mirror.
‘What’s your problem?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Don’t go touching the surface.’
‘It’s only a mirror.’
Wainwright snorted. ‘It’s more than that, Jack. And you don’t go touching the glass.’
‘Because?’
‘Because a dark mirror is a delicate balance of the past, the present and the future. The glass is the interface, and if you touch it you can ruin it.’ He picked up the cloth and carefully draped it over the mirror.
‘How would I go about using it?’
‘To do what, specifically?’
‘What you said. Talk to the dead.’
Wainwright’s eyes narrowed. ‘This isn’t a toy, Jack.’
‘I know it’s not a toy. I was just thinking that maybe I could use it to contact that girl. The girl I was talking about.’
‘Scrying is one thing; contacting the dead is a whole different ball game.’
‘I’m a big boy, Joshua. I can take care of myself.’
‘Don’t get cocky. Just because you’ve called up a couple of demons doesn’t mean you’re an expert in the black arts. A black mirror like this is more than just a scrying tool. Under the right circumstances it can be a portal.’
