Had it not been for the fact that the Count of St Germaine had cast his exaggerated shadow in the fashionable places of some three hundred years past, one would have been tempted to assume that both inscriptions were the product of a single hand, the Count’s text appearing only the work of a younger and more sprightly individual. But even to suggest such a thing would be to trespass dangerously upon the shores of unreason, although it must be said that Old Pete, one of the Borough’s most notable octogenarians, was wont to recall that when he was naught but a tousle-haired sprog, with ringworm and rickets, the Professor was already a gentleman of great age.
Around and about the study, the musty showcases were crowded with a profusion of extraordinary objects, the tall bookshelves bulged with rare volumes and the carved tables stood heavily burdened with brass oraries and silver astrolabes. All these wonders hovered in the half-light, exhibits of a private museum born to the Professor’s esoteric taste. Golden, dusty motes hung in the sunlight shafts, and the room held a silence which was all its own. Beyond the French windows, the wonderful garden bloomed throughout every season with a luxuriant display of exotic flora. But beyond the walls existed a changing world for which the Professor had very little time. He trod the boundaries of the Borough each day at sunrise, attended certain local functions, principally the yearly darts tournament at the Flying Swan, and accepted his role as oracle and ornamental hermit to the folk of Brentford.
Omally’s hobnails clattered across the cobbled stones of the Butts Estate, Pooley’s blakeys offering a light accompaniment, as the two marched purposefully forward.
“No sign of the wandering camel trains then?” asked Jim.
Omally shrugged. “Something had been giving Dave’s cabbage patch quite a seeing to,” he said, “but I saw no footprints.”
“Neville put the wee lad out, shortly after you’d gone.”
“Good thing too, last thing we need is a camel hunt on the allotment.”
The two men rounded a corner and reached the Professor’s garden door. Here they paused a moment before pressing through. Neither man knew exactly why he did this; it was an unconscious action, as natural as blinking, or raising a pint glass to the lips. Omally pushed open the ever-unbolted door and he and Pooley entered the magical garden. The blooms swayed drowsily and enormous bees moved amongst them humming tunes which no man knew the words to.
The Professor turned not his head from his writing, but before his two visitors had come but a step or two towards the open French windows he called out gaily, “Good afternoon, John, Jim. You are some distance from your watering hole with yet half an hour’s drinking time left upon the Guinness clock.”
Pooley scrutinized his Piaget wristwatch, which had stopped. “We come upon business of the utmost import,” he said, knowing well the Professor’s contempt for the mundane, “and seek your counsel.”
“Enter then. You know where the decanter is.”
After a rather undignified rush and the equally tasteless spectacle of two grown men squeezing together through the open French windows Pooley and Omally availed themselves of the Professor’s hospitality. “You are looking well, sir,” said Jim, now grinning up from a brimming shot-crystal tumbler. “Are you engaged upon anything interesting in the way of research at present?”
The old man closed his book and smiled up at Pooley. “The search for the philosopher’s stone,” he said simply. “But what of you fellows? How goes the golfing?”
Omally brought his winning smile into prominence. “We pursue our sport as best we can, but the Council’s henchmen have little love for our technique.”
Professor Slocombe chuckled. “I have heard tell of your technique,” he said, “and I suspect that your chances of membership to Gleneagles are pretty slight. I myself recently followed up some reports of UFO sightings above the allotments at night and my investigation disclosed a cache of luminously painted golf balls. Although your techniques are somewhat unorthodox, your enterprise is commendable.” The old man rose from his desk and decanted himself a gold watch. “So,” he said at length, “to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Pooley made free with a little polite coughing and drew out The
“No, no,” said Jim, “on the back.”
Professor Slocombe turned over the dog-eared exercise book and his dazzling facial archway elevated itself by another half inch. “So,” he said, “you think to test me out, do you, Jim?”
Pooley shook his head vigorously. “No, sir,” said he, to the accompaniment of much heart crossing. “No ruse here, I assure you. The thing has us rightly perplexed and that is a fact.”
“As such it would,” said Professor Slocombe. Crossing to one of the massive bookcases, the old man ran a slender finger, which terminated in a tiny girlish nail, along the leathern spines of a row of dusty-looking volumes. Selecting one, bound in a curious yellow hide and bearing a heraldic device and a Latin inscription, he bore it towards his cluttered desk. “Clear those Lemurian maps aside please, John,” he said, “and Jim, if you could put that pickled homunculus over on the side table we shall have room to work.”
Pooley laboured without success to shift a small black book roughly the size of a cigarette packet, but clearly of somewhat greater weight. Nudging him aside, the Professor lifted it as if it were a feather and tossed it into one of the leather-backed armchairs. “Never try to move the books,” he told Jim. “They are, you might say, protected.”
Jim shrugged hopelessly. He had known the Professor too long to doubt that he possessed certain talents which were somewhat above the everyday run of the mill.
“Now,” said the elder, spreading his book upon the partially cleared desk, “let us see what we shall see. You have brought me something of a poser this time, but I think I shall be able to satisfy your curiosity. This tome,” he explained, fluttering his hands over the yellow volume, “is the sole remaining copy of a work by one of the great masters of, shall we say, hidden lore.”
“We shall say it,” said John, “and leave it at that.”
“The author’s name was Cagliostro, and he dedicated his life, amongst other things, to the study of alchemic symbolism and in particular the runic ideogram.”
“Aha,” said Omally, “so it is a rune then, such I thought it to be.”
“The first I’ve heard of it,” sniffed Pooley.
“It has the outward appearance of a rune,” the Professor continued, “but it is a little more complex than that. Your true rune is simply a letter of the runic alphabet. Once one has mastered the system it is fairly easy to decipher the meaning. This, however, is an ideogram or ideograph, which is literally the graphic representation of an idea or ideas through the medium of symbolic characterization.”
“As clear as mud,” said Jim Pooley. “I should have expected little else.”
“If you will bear with me for a while, I shall endeavour to make it clear to you.” The Professor straightened his ivory-framed spectacles and settled himself down before his book. Pooley turned his empty glass between his fingers. “Feel at liberty to replenish it whenever you like, Jim,” said the old man without looking up. The pendulum upon the great ormolu mantelclock swung slowly, dividing the day up, and the afternoon began to pass. The Professor sat at his desk, the great book spread before him, his pale, slim hand lightly tracing over the printed text.
Pooley wandered aimlessly about the study, marvelling at how it could be that the more closely he scrutinized the many books the more blurry and indecipherable their titles became. They were indeed, as the Professor put it, “protected”. At length he rubbed his eyes, shook his head in defeat, and sought other pursuits.
Omally, for his part, finished the decanter of five-year-old scotch and fell into what can accurately be described as a drunken stupor.
At very great length the mantelclock struck five. With opening time at the Swan drawing so perilously close, Pooley ventured to enquire as to whether the Professor was near to a solution.
“Oh, sorry, Jim,” said the old man, looking up, “I had quite forgotten you were here.”
Pooley curled his lip. It was obvious that the Professor was never to be denied his bit of gamesmanship. “You have deciphered the symbol then?”
“Why yes, of course. Perhaps you would care to awaken your companion.”
Pooley poked a bespittled finger into the sleeper’s ear and Omally awoke with a start.
“Now then,” said Professor Slocombe, closing his book and leaning back in his chair. “Your symbol is not without interest. It combines two runic characters and an enclosing alchemic symbol. I can tell you what it says,
