The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(149)

I scribbled some notes on my shirt-cuff, for I knew that such an anachronism would please him.

‘Finally,’ he went on, ‘and this may be a trifle difficult, you will need a ruined church which has been deconsecrated – preferably one with a toad dwelling beneath the altar. Do you suppose you could manage that, eh?’

‘As a matter of fact there is just such a place in Jersey; it’s called La Hougue Bie. An abandoned sixteenth-century chapel stands on a mound which contains one of the finest megalithic pre-Christian tombs in Europe. I am sure toads abound there but, should they be absent, it would be the work of a moment – and indeed a kindness – to introduce them to such a haven.’

‘Excellent! You are sure that the chapel has been deconsecrated? No? Then you must make sure. You could, of course, desecrate it yourself, but it’s not really the same thing and you might find the process a little trying. There would be, perhaps annoyances, in a place of such antiquity. I’m sure you understand me.’

‘Only too well.’

‘Then I think we have covered everything and you, no doubt, will be eager to get to bed.’

I didn’t sleep awfully well, perhaps I’d eaten something which disagreed with me. Once I awoke in a panic: some frightful cantrip had been chanting itself inside my head, but it was only an innocent verse from The Wind in the Willows:



‘The clever men at Oxford

Know all that there is to be knowed.

But they none of them know one half as much

As intelligent Mr Toad!’





I couldn’t understand why it had frightened me so much.





8





By the One who may don the black raiment

Of the Goat which was never a goat

Now come I to exact the dread payment

For the lie that was born in the throat.



In a High Place, to decent men nameless,

Guarding ever the Branchless Rod,

Lies a thing which is pallid and shameless,

Ill with lust for a frightful god.



O, Ashtaroth, darling of Sidon,

Loathly Chemosh, who raves in the night,

I bring the red kiss which shall widen,

For thy servant, a way to thy sight.





Asmodeus





Dryden was kind enough to take me to my train in the morning. He drives fast and decisively but he has his own little theories about how to deal with other road-users and the drive was not enjoyable. I once diffidently pointed out to him that we were entering a one-way street: he beamed at me, an index finger laid against his nose, and cried:

‘Ah, but which way? We are not told, you see!’ This savouring of his triumph led him to mount the pavement, so I let the rest of the trip unwind itself without further comment – and with my eyes closed. I remember wishing that I knew a cantrip or two to recite.

How Dryden puts you on a train is as follows. He stalls his elderly Wolseley on the ‘TAXIS ONLY’ sign, leaps out, pops the jack under the sill and gives it a couple of turns. This, he finds, gives him some twenty minutes’ grace. Then he strikes a Joan of Arc stance, umbrella pointing to the empyrean, and cries ‘Porter!’ again and again, in tones of increasing pitch and theatricality, until every sensate being within earshot is frantically seeking porters for the poor gentleman and you, his passenger, are quite magenta-hued with shame and chagrin.

When a porter is at last thrust forward by the compassionate throng, rubbing his red eyes and peering about him in the unaccustomed daylight like a spider evicted from a Scotchman’s purse, Dryden takes him firmly by the arm.

‘This gentleman,’ he explains, laying a forefinger on your waistcoat, ‘has to travel to London. It is most important.’ He gently turns the porter to the East and points along the up-line. ‘London,’ he repeats. ‘Pray see to it, and you are to keep this for yourself.’ With this he turns away, his duty done, he has looked after you. The porter gapes at the tiny coin pressed into his palm, but his sense of humour prevails and he takes your bag with a half-bow and offers to carry your umbrella, too. He leads you to the ticket-office and explains to the clerk just what it is you need. When he has got you into a corner-seat-facing-the-engine in a first-class compartment and has straightened the anti-macassar, he looks around as though seeking a travelling-rug to tuck about your knees. You over-tip him grossly, I need scarcely say. You know that later you may find it all most amusing, but just now you want to spit.

As the train gave a preliminary lurch I rose and looked out of the window. Dryden was on the platform – perhaps he had been asking the guard to look after me. But no, he was hurrying along, bobbing up and down to scan first-class compartments.

‘Hoy!’ I cried, waving. He broke into a canter, but the train was a match for him.

‘Turnips!’ he seemed to cry as he lost ground. ‘Turnips!’

‘Turnips?’ I roared, but by then we were out of earshot.

‘What the devil does he mean, “turnips”?’ I mused aloud as I sat down. Unnoticed by me, the compartment had filled. Opposite me, a respectable old woman, who in the ordinary way would have offered me a religious tract or two, was offering me the nastiest look you can imagine. I played the only possible counter-move: I fished out my silver pocket-flask and took a swig. It did her a power of good. In the diagonally opposite corner sat an albino priest, who looked up from his Breviary to give me a saintly, sloppy smile, as much to say that, if my DTs became intolerable, he would wrestle in prayer with me. The fourth corner was occupied by an obvious merchant-banker – try as they will, they cannot disguise those shifty eyes, that rat-trap mouth. He was working on The Times crossword, but to the exclusion of turnips, pocket-flasks and everything else: it is this power of concentration which singles out a man for the merchant-banking trade.