The Irishman stood swaying in the doorway supporting himself upon the doorpost. “Do not bother to relate your conversation,” he said simply, “for I have overheard every syllable.”
Pooley dragged himself up to his feet and patted his companion upon the shoulders. “The fates are against us,” he said, “we had better go.”
The two men staggered off down Mafeking Avenue, en route for the Butts Estate and Professor Slocombe’s house. At intervals Omally stopped to stare again at the night sky. “Something is definitely amiss in the heavens,” he said.
Pooley stumbled on. “I would gladly offer you my opinion,” he said, “but I fear that any increased elevation of the head might result in a catalepsy, possibly terminating in death.”
Outside the Memorial Library Pooley stopped and held up his hands. “Enough,” said he, “I can go no further.” He collapsed on to his favourite bench, breathing heavily and clutching at his heart.
Omally pulled at his shirtsleeve. “Come now, it’s only around the corner and I am sure that there will be time for a glass or three of the Professor’s whisky.”
Pooley rose unsteadily. “We must aid our noble colleague, a fine and learned old gentleman. Come Omally, let us not delay here.”
The Professor’s house was shuttered and absolutely silent. As Pooley and Omally stared at the front door the old man’s hand appeared, frantically beckoning them to enter.
The Professor bolted the door firmly behind them. The house was in darkness, lit only by the silver candelabra which the old man carried. By the flickering light Pooley could see that his face looked pale, drawn and deeply lined. He seemed to have aged terribly since they had seen him last “Are you all right, Professor?” Pooley asked in concern.
Professor Slocombe nodded impatiently. “I will be all right. What of you two, how have things been for you since last we met?”
“Oh, fine,” said Omally, “we are wanted by the police, we came within inches of being eaten alive, other than that, fine.”
The Professor led them through the ink dark corridors towards his study. “The police,” he said, “how are they involved?”
“They have found my wheelbarrow stuck in the mud at Chiswick accompanied by two corpses. They raided the Swan and were also at Pooley’s asking questions.”
By now the three men had entered the Professor’s study and the old man lit from his candelabra an assortment of candles around the room. “Fear not, John,” he said, seating himself at his desk, “I have recorded upon paper all that I know regarding this business. It has been witnessed and it is lodged in a safety-deposit box. Should I not survive this night then at least you will be safe upon that account.”
“That is pleasing to my ears,” said John, “but come now, survive this night, what can you mean by that?”
As Omally filled glasses Professor Slocombe seated himself at his desk. “Tonight,” he said, “the followers of the being who calls himself Pope Alexander VI will gather at the Seamen’s Mission to glorify their new Messiah. Tonight he will instal himself upon his Papal throne and ‘sanctify’ his ‘Holy See’. The Mission is to be his new Vatican. Tonight will be our last opportunity to stop him. Should we fail then I can see little future for any of us.”
Pooley gulped back his scotch. “But do you think we alone can stop him?”
“We must try.”
“And at what time will this mockery of the true Church take place?” Omally asked.
“A little after nine. We must lose ourselves amongst the crowd, and once we get inside you must do exactly as I say.”
Pooley refilled the glasses and looked up at the great mantelclock. It chimed eight-thirty. “We have half an hour.” He smiled, dropping back into one of the Professor’s high-backed fireside chairs.
Omally fingered the neck of the crystal decanter. “Plenty of time,” said he.
The minutes ticked slowly away. Pooley and Omally fortified themselves until the decanter was spent, and the Professor sat at his desk scribbling away with a goose-feather quill upon a length of parchment.
Omally watched the old man working. Could he really stand up to this Pope Alex? Omally felt somewhat doubtful. Certainly the Professor was full of good intentions and his knowledge of the esoteric and the occult was profound. But who knows what might be lurking within the Mission? It seemed reasonable to suppose that Pope Alex would not be unguarded. Better a more positive approach then. Something more physical than mere babblings of ancient words. Something more concrete. More concrete?
A smile crossed Omally’s face and broadened into a grin of Cheshire cat proportions. Concrete, that was the thing. Or better still, the good old half brick, always a friend in time of need.
23
The Professor’s clock struck nine and the old man rose unsteadily to his feet. “We had better go,” he said, “slip these about your shoulders.” He indicated two mud-brown cloaks draped across a side table. “They should help you merge into the crowd.”
Omally raised himself to his feet and swayed over to the table. “Very pleasing,” he said, casting the cloak about his broad shoulders, “very ecclesiastical.”
Pooley climbed from his chair and donned his cloak. “You would make a fine monk, Jim Pooley,” said Omally, chuckling irreverently.
With that the two caped crusaders helped the Professor to extinguish the candles and followed the old man through the darkened house to the front door. Professor Slocombe eased it open a crack and the three men stared out into the mysterious night.
All across the Butts Estate grim-faced crowds were moving. They moved with a strange, stiff- legged gait like tailors’ dummies removed from their shop windows and grotesquely animated. The eyes of these dummies seemed glazed and sightless, yet stared ever ahead in the direction of the Mission.
Professor Slocombe turned up the astrakhan collar of his elderly coat. “Come,” he whispered. He ushered Pooley and Omally out through the front door, which he locked with a heavy iron key. Whilst he was thus engaged his two inebriated colleagues exchanged knowing glances, furtively stooped and swept up two likely- looking house bricks which each secreted within the folds of his robes.
Lovingly patting their respective bulges they followed the old Professor down the short path and out into the Butts Estate. The three men slipped in amongst the sombre crowds, doing their best to adopt the stiff-legged gait and lacklustre stare. Pooley’s impersonation was astonishingly convincing, but that was because he was paralytic. Omally stumbled along at his side, occasionally peering up at the sky and muttering to himself.
As the crowd, which was now several hundred strong, neared the Mission it soberly formed into a single file. The three men could see that the heavily braced door had been thrown open and that a soft light glowed from within. Pooley fell into line behind the Professor, with the muttering Omally bringing up the rear. As each of the zombiesque walkers crossed the threshold of the Seamen’s Mission he or she genuflected and mouthed a short phrase of archaic Latin.
Pooley was pleased to note that the phrase spoken by the Professor as he entered the portal differed substantially from that of the rest. Jim was no scholar of language so he merely mumbled incoherently and hoped that none would notice. Omally was the next to bow his knee, an action which he achieved more through luck than judgement. His knowledge of Latin was extensive, but it was two words of the Gaelic that he chose. “Pog Mahoun,” said the man from the Emerald Isle, raising two fingers.
There was already a considerable number of people assembled within the Mission, and the three would-be party-poopers could see little above the multitude of heads.
Omally felt the Professor’s sinewy hand closing about his arm as the old man drew the Irishman away towards a shadowy corner. Pooley followed them. Here and there he saw a face he recognized, but doll-like, vacant of expression and seeming to lack some essential ingredient of humanity.
The three men squeezed themselves into a darkened niche at the rear of a large column. The
