Deadlight-Hall(9)

Michael pacified the aggrieved decorator, who was annoyed at having a twenty-litre can of paint ruined, managed not to point out that it would have been better not to leave the lid off in the first place, agreed to foot the bill for a fresh can of paint, together with what seemed like an unreasonably large amount of turpentine, tipped his scout to help them clean everything, then hauled Wilberforce off to the vet to have his paint-spattered paws dealt with.

‘Poor Wilberforce,’ said Nell that evening in Quire Court. ‘He’ll smell of turps for ages and his dignity will be severely damaged, never mind his street cred.’

‘If the Bursar finds out it’ll be Wilberforce who’ll be severely damaged,’ said Michael. ‘He’s already furious about having to get Wilberforce out of the attics.’

‘Yes, but I bet you get a chapter out of it for the new book.’

‘Well, I might.’ Michael had in fact already emailed his editor at the children’s book publishers about the idea as soon as he returned from the vet’s. He had received a cordial response, together with a reminder that they had a publication date of February and a first draft by the end of September would be greatly appreciated by the illustrator. She supposed that would not be a problem, however. There was not quite a question mark at the end of this last sentence, but Michael heard it anyway.

‘And,’ he said to Nell, ‘she apparently thinks it would be “rather fun” to have some publicity shots of the real Wilberforce for the new book and what do I think?’

‘Well, what do you think? And are you staying to supper? I made a huge lasagne this afternoon, so there’s plenty.’

‘Anyone who can keep Wilberforce still for long enough to photograph him – never mind finding him in the first place – is welcome to shoot an entire album of photographs,’ said Michael wrathfully. ‘And yes, I’d like to stay to supper, please. Where’s Beth?’

‘Bashing out scales with her music teacher. She hates scales, but she loves the second part of the lesson when she’s allowed to try one of the simpler Mozart pieces. She’ll be back by eight. We’ll save her some lasagne.’

Later, over the lasagne, she said, ‘How was the professor’s haunted house?’

‘A bit odd.’ Michael had been looking forward to being with Nell – to the familiar comfort of the little house behind her shop – but he discovered he did not want to talk about the small strange shadow he had seen. Instead he said, ‘I might see if I can unearth any details about it. It’d be interesting to research its history.’

‘I’ve been doing some researching,’ said Nell.

‘The professor’s silver golem?’ Michael was instantly interested.

‘Yes. I’ve had a discussion with Henry Jessel at Silver Edges. He’s got dozens of books on hallmarks – it took ages to track the golem’s markings down, and even then Henry couldn’t be absolutely sure about its place of origin. Apparently hallmarks struck in Central Europe – Bavaria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary – Bohemia, if you like – can be confusing. There were so many wars and the borders kept changing, so extra marks were sometimes struck on items from other countries. That means you often get a plurality of marks, and it’s not always easy to know which one to trust. That’s what seems to have happened with the golem. Henry says we’ll probably have to take the professor’s word that it was made in Prague.’

‘Could you tell when it was actually made?’

‘It’s stamped as 1780, and there’s a figure of fifteen over the top, which indicates it’s a very pure silver.’

‘Valuable, then.’

‘Yes, I think so, but I’m waiting for Ashby’s pronouncement on that. They’d be more than happy to include it in their next sale, by the way.’

‘Of course they would. Did you say you’d taken photographs? Can I see them?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Nell, pleased at his interest.

‘It’s an extraordinary object,’ said Michael, as she laid the photos on the table. ‘But it’s rather attractive.’

‘I think it’s quite endearing. A bit like a silver version of a child’s teddy bear. But,’ said Nell, ‘here’s one rather curious thing. The professor told me about a legendary golem crafted in Prague in the sixteenth century. Ashby’s knew about that. They said quite a number of figures were later made in Prague – I think as a kind of echo, or even homage, to the sixteenth-century tale. But there were two in particular – an exact pair – made in Prague in the late 1700s, said to have been valuable.’ She paused to drink the wine Michael had poured. ‘Both those figures vanished in the early 1940s. Ashby’s won’t commit themselves until they see Professor Rosendale’s figure, but they think it might be one of that vanished pair. They’ve got some correspondence on it – they’re going to send me copies.’