The Snape Ring

Chapter 2

2 THE BRITISH MUSEUM, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON, MARCH 2021

His cross-wired brain had lain dormant during his sabbatical, providing a welcome respite from premonitions, retrocognitions, mind-binding and the other extraordinary powers with which he had been endowed. But as he strode across the Great Court of the museum to mount the stairs to the first floor, the familiar ache between and above his eyes returned. It indicated that his presence was not casual and that AA had chosen the right man for the job. Stepping up the long flight and entering a room that might have interested anyone but him, he passed through oblivious to his surroundings and entered Room 41.

He was immediately struck by the airiness and lightness of the exhibition. The non-reflective glass cases allowed an immediacy, as though there was no obstacle between himself and the large round Saxon shield he was facing. The ache had passed and he drew nearer to admire the helm he knew so well. He never tired of looking at it and, like a little boy, imagined pulling it on his head and charging at a ranked enemy. Lost in reverie, he had a sudden sensation of someone staring. Sheepishly, he looked around to spot a petite woman smiling at him. Fortunate in his deity-enhanced looks, in the past few months Jake had become used to surreptitious or admiring glances from the fair s*x. Of course, it flattered him and this woman, in her thirties he guessed, pleased his eye and surprised him by walking across with hand extended.

“Mr Conley? Cathy Bartlett, delighted to meet you.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. Was he hearing a-right? Wasn’t she too young to hold such an important position? Where was the grey-haired, dowdy figure he’d feared? This was indeed a pleasant revelation. Her hazel eyes twinkled with amusement, “Welcome to my realm. I recognised you at once from your picture in the paper and on the back of your novel. I read it; you know. King Aldfrith: I love anything to do with the Anglo-Saxon period.

“Well, I’m sure we have a lot in common and to talk about Ms Bartlett…”

“Please, call me Cathy.”

“OK, Cathy, I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table for two. I hope you like Italian food?”

Her face lit up, “My favourite. Uncle Clive said you’d probably be taking me for a working lunch. How very civilised!”

Jake felt smug, Clive, is it?

“We should slip along, then. Tempus fugit!”

Not to be outdone, she replied, “fugit inreparabile tempus,” citing Virgil’s entire phrase, Jake did a rapid silent translation ‘it escapes, irretrievable time.’

Impressed, as they exited the building, he discovered she’d been to the small restaurant for a staff dinner two years before and appreciated the food and the ambience. Trust Clive to get it right! I must find out his surname. If he knew AA’s identity, he could do some background research. It would make him feel less insecure when dealing with the big chief.

They were greeted at the door by a distinctly Italian-looking man wearing a white shirt and black bow-tie. “Meester Conley, sì signore. Table for two. I reserved this one by the window if it pleases la signorina. It did. “My name is Fabio and I’ll be looking after you. He flashed a charming smile at the curator, ignoring Jake. “An aperitivo, perhaps. I have a nice cheeled prosecco.

“That’d be lovely,” she replied for both.

Following the aperitif, the antipasti were exquisite and the chilled Verdicchio an excellent accompaniment. He was amazed at the appetite in one with such a slender figure, but with the relaxing effects of the alcohol accompanying the pasta the secret came to light. It was a Cirò rosé.

“I’m always pleased when my escort chooses the wine, especially when he knows what he’s doing.”

He smiled enigmatically as was the case because he didn’t! Well done Clive. Sir Clive, I’ll bet.

She studied the label. “It’s Calabrian, you know. That region was part of the Magna Graecia and this vine is among the oldest in the world. Did you know that in the early Olympic Games the winners were awarded Cirò wine, not gold medals?”

An unpleasant association with the wine’s region and his earlier thoughts occurred to him but showing no outward sign, he paused from winding spaghetti and shovelling it into his mouth, “I’m not feeling athletic at the moment.”

“Fortunately,” she smiled, “I did my usual fifty-minute run this morning; don’t you work out, Jake?”

He thought of telling her he’d flown to Scotland last month as a peregrine falcon, but, how could he? It defied belief. He limited himself to, “Not as much as I’d like. Too busy!”

“Yes, I know about your anti-fracking campaign and Uncle Clive hinted a little at your classified work. Are you a spy, Mr Conley?”

“I would be if Sir Clive had his way. Ah she isn’t betraying any emotion when I knight him, so he is a ‘Sir’. But you know, I’m rather a regular guy. Mmm, this dish is exquisite, isn’t it? What’s bottarga, by the way? Forgive my ignorance.”

She smiled, pleased at his sincerity. She glanced at the menu, spaghetti with pesto of lemon zest, pistachio and bottarga. “It’s tuna roe, Jake.”

“Ah, fish eggs; nonetheless, delicious.”

“They are. But you’re not.”

“Excuse me, not what?”

“Just a regular guy as you claim to be.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Apart from this first half-hour in your company? There’s what Uncle Clive told me.”

“Yes, about Sir Clive…oh my goodness! Do you ever have these moments?”

“Sorry?”

“A total blank. When things escape your mind and no matter how hard you try, you can’t grasp something.”

She laid her fork on her plate and gazed at him. “It sometimes happens: to everyone, I think. Why? What is it you’ve forgotten?”

“Sir Clive. I see him all the time and his surname’s gone.”

“Cochrane?”

“Good heavens! How can a name like that slip my mind? It must be your charming presence distracting me!”

“Now, you’re the charming one!”

He didn’t press the matter; he’d got what he wanted. “About Sir Clive Cochrane. What’s he up to Cathy? I mean, I can only thank him for arranging this meeting but he didn’t mention the underlying purpose.”

She looked musingly, “So that’s why you haven’t said anything. I thought it was just you being the supercool agent. Sangfroid and all that!”

“Would you like to enlighten me?”

Fabio appeared, sniffing a cork and holding a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino Riserva 1981, silently displaying professional approval of the wine selection by his somewhat Latin body language.

Bravo, Mr Cochrane! That beauty must cost £300. With a flourish, their waiter poured a drop into his glass for approval, which was eagerly given. I’m glad I’m not picking up this tab.

“My goodness, you know your wines, Jake.”

“I did the Chianti trail a few years ago and this is perhaps their flagship label.”

“Near Siena, isn’t it?”

He had barely completed his enthusiastic account of wine tasting sessions in Tuscan castles with graphic descriptions of the rolling hills covered with neat, well-tended rows of vines when Fabio arrived with shin of wild boar and told them solemnly: “Signori, roasted ve-ery slowly in red wine with cloves and served with fresh cranberry sauce. Jake wondered what he would have to do for Ms Bartlett to discount this sumptuous meal. He would soon find out.

She waited until Fabio had retreated out of earshot and gazed at Jake, who had been studying her oval face, straight nose and full lips. Her shoulder-length light-brown hair turned charmingly to blonde at its extremity and with its switch from left to right, set off her regular features. It was better if Alice thought of the curator as an elderly frump. Nothing could be further from reality; he found her rather more than pleasing.

“I told you Room Forty-one was my realm, Jake, but it might have been more accurate to say ‘my baby’. When I took over, it was a gloomy, dingy place. Not at all what you see today. The fact is, people need educating about the early medieval period. They still call them the Dark Ages and that’s a misnomer if ever there was one. I don’t need to convince you of all people, but just think of the jewellery,” she sipped at her wine appreciatively, licking her lips delicately with the tip of her tongue. “The gallery as it was conceived did everything to reinforce the impression of darkness. I’ve recreated it aiming at a light, airy space with the Sutton Hoo treasures in the centre like the sun and everything else gravitating around them. Wandering around the floor, people should be able to relate the connection of other areas to sixth-century East Anglia and easily insert them in a time frame.”

“I think you’ve been very successful, but how is any of this problematical?”

She looked anxious for the first time. “It isn’t, but a few months ago, about last September, I think, strange things began to happen.”

“What kind of things?”

“At first just affecting the staff of Room Forty-one. They complained of headaches and nausea. Some managed to get themselves transferred to other areas of the museum. At least two left the British Museum completely to change their jobs, furnishing no satisfactory explanation for the change. Their replacements seem afraid of something but when I press them, they don’t want to talk about it except in the vaguest terms.”

“What do they say?”

“Odd things, like the room is haunted. Absolute stuff and nonsense!” She looked indignantly at him as if it were his fault. “And then there’s the fact of the display case.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s occurred twice, so far and I can’t explain it. There are security films, of course, but they’re weird too.”

“Tell me,” he was intrigued.

“A cabinet was damaged in the night, about a month ago. You know, it would take an incredible amount of force to break that reinforced nonreflective glass. It costs a fortune and we had to replace the pane and not once because it happened again a week ago. That’s when I contacted Uncle Clive since there’s no explanation and the CCTV only makes it more mysterious.”

“How come?”

“Because on both occasions, the film of the room goes haywire as if there had been massive electrical interference. We lost the image for about thirty minutes on both occasions. The next morning, we found the glass cracked but not opened and nothing missing. The circumstances have just made the staff edgier and more reluctant to stay in our room. I don’t know what to do.”

“And you say the same cabinet was attacked on the second occasion?”

“Yes,” she said gulping this time, not sipping, at her wine.

“What is there of importance inside?”

“Obviously, for me, everything in there is of importance. There are some outstanding artefacts, but honestly, I can’t think of one that might attract a thief more than others. All the pieces in that unit are jewellery, brooches, bracelets, rings and so forth.”

“I see. Also, it’s clear, Cathy, we’re not dealing with an ordinary thief here.”

“Not you too, Jake! Surely, you don’t agree with my windy staff that it’s a ghost? Uncle Clive told me that you’d had dealings in Yorkshire with the supernatural. I’m not a believer in that kind of thing.”

“In that case, if you reject the concept of ghosts or other inexplicable entities, you must think that you’re dealing with very sophisticated thieves. First of all, the security out of hours of the British Museum is practically impenetrable; secondly, they would have to be invisible. But if I’m going to help, I can’t afford to dismiss anything out of hand. I’ll need to inspect the cabinet for myself. What time do you close the room?”

“To the public? At half-past five.”

“By the way, did you take photographs of the damage?”

“Yes, I did.” She groped in her handbag and took out an iPhone X. As briskly as she did everything, she produced a photograph of the damaged cabinet. “That was the first attempt, just over a month ago, at the end of January. The glass showed crazed cracks spreading from a chipped depression. You know, that glass is bulletproof among its other attributes.”

“Was the blow struck near the lock?”

“Not in the old-fashioned sense of the term,” she said, “There’s an overall sealing system. It’s quite advanced. But if you wanted to get into the cabinet, that’s where you’d strike. Although–”

“Yes?”

She flicked to another photograph, “Last week the blow was delivered to the opposite side.”

“Strange.”

“Isn’t it?” She looked worried and nibbled at a knuckle.

“Look, I think I’d better come up to Room Forty-one at half-past five and see for myself.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to do anything?”

“If I can’t, I don’t know who can.”

She gave him a grateful look but she could not help that it was tinged with doubt.