Writ in Water Read online

  ‘You’re very late.’

  ‘Traffic was a bitch, what can I say? And I used the Pringle can at Pittypats before I came.’ Isidore winked at him.

  ‘Pringle can?’ Frankie looked mystified.

  Gabriel shook his head in warning at Isidore. Of course he knew that Frankie was aware what his profession was these days, but there was no need to remind her of its more nefarious aspects. ‘Pringle can’ was their code phrase for the very sophisticated directional antenna they used for targeting wireless systems.

  Isidore flopped into the chair opposite. Holding out his hand, he said, ‘Mrs Whittington. A real pleasure.’

  Frankie, looking a little startled, took the hand. ‘Thanks. But please call me Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie. That’s a cool name.’

  She smiled, clearly charmed. ‘Thank you for helping me.’

  ‘No problem.’ He reached for the briefcase and threw a glance at Gabriel. ‘I managed to get quite a lot of stuff about the Monk sisters from the Internet. I’m not sure how helpful it will be, but for what it’s worth, here it is.’ From the briefcase he extracted an orange folder. Placing it on the table in front of him, he opened it and blinked owlishly at the contents.

  ‘Anything on that coat of arms, the Monas?’

  ‘Not a coat of arms. A sigil.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A sigil: a seal, or a device that supposedly has occult power in astrology or magic.’ Isidore spoke in the deliberately patient voice of someone having to explain something to a not-so-bright student.

  ‘You don’t say. So what are we talking about here, witchcraft?’

  Isidore pursed his lips. ‘Well, witchcraft is such an emotive word, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Isidore. Get on with it. What the hell is it?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Isidore made a placating gesture with his hand. ‘First of all, the full name of this sigil is the Monas Hieroglyphica: the hieroglyphic monad. In 1564 it was used by one Dr John Dee as the frontispiece for a book he wrote on mysticism, which includes all kinds of obscure references to numerology, the Kabbalah, astrology, cosmology and mathematics. Heavy stuff. By all accounts it is a work of mind-boggling complexity and Dee managed to write it in a mad frenzy over a period of only twelve days. This guy was a Jedi, I tell you.’

  ‘But what does it represent?’

  ‘The Monas is several astrological symbols all bundled into one. Dee believed it to represent the unity of the cosmos.’

  ‘I still don’t get what it is.’

  ‘Well, this is not just a symbol, understand. It is a seal infused with actual astral power. It not only talks the talk, it walks the walk. So not only does it reflect the unity of the universe, it is an actual tool with which to unify the psyche itself. And it’s a symbol of initiation. Anyone who carries this mark on him is signalling that he is transformed.’

  ‘Alchemy.’ Frankie’s voice was quiet. ‘That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Personal transformation.’

  Isidore looked at her, his gaze keen. ‘Yes. You know about this stuff, then.’

  ‘Alchemy was one of Robbie’s great passions. He read tons of literature about it. I’ve always wondered why he had that thing tattooed on him.’

  Gabriel looked from Isidore to Frankie and back again. He felt left behind, as though they were speaking some foreign language, deliberately keeping him in the dark. ‘But alchemy is turning lead into gold, isn’t it?’

  Isidore shook his head. ‘That’s only part of it. Alchemists were really involved in transforming the soul. Even the body. There are reports of alchemists becoming immensely old. Those who weren’t poisoned by the chemicals they were handling, that is.’

  ‘So who was John Dee?’

  ‘Ah, now this is where it gets interesting. John Dee was your poster-boy Renaissance man. He was a mathematical genius—his work anticipated Newton’s by almost a hundred years—and without his mapmaking skills the most important naval explorations of the Elizabethan age could not have taken place. Furthermore, he was an adviser and a secret agent to Queen Elizabeth I. His spy name was 007. Neat, huh?’ Isidore grinned, enjoying himself.

  ‘Fascinating. So what?’

  ‘Patience, my son. All will be revealed.’ Isidore nodded sagely and Gabriel bit his tongue. ‘Among his many interests,’ Isidore continued serenely, ‘Dee had a deep and abiding fascination with the occult which, in those days, was pretty risky, believe me. It could get you burned at the stake before you could say abracadabra. Dee sailed very close to the wind indeed. The Monas Hieroglyphica is really a book on magic. Furthermore, Dee was an information freak, an absolute addict. He was not a wealthy man, but at one stage he had gathered in his house the most impressive library in the whole of Britain. Knowledge was his potion… or his poison, depending on how you look at it. He may have overdosed a bit. Turned gaga. He ended up thinking he could communicate with angels and became a laughing stock among his peers. Very sad, because he was seriously brilliant.’

  ‘All of this still does not explain why the Monk sisters have the Monas plastered up all over their house. You can hardly turn around without tripping over that emblem.’

  ‘Sigil.’

  ‘All right, then. Sigil.’

  ‘I think what we may have here is an example of ancestral pride.’

  ‘You mean…?’ Frankie leaned forward, eyebrows raised.

  Isidore nodded with the smugness of a magician pulling an especially plump rabbit out of his hat. ‘Minnaloushe and Morrighan Monk are direct descendants of Dr John Dee, the greatest mind of the Elizabethan era.’

  Frankie leaned back slowly. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘I’ll say. I wouldn’t mind an ancestor like Dee myself. That kind of genius in the gene pool is robust enough to survive the ages.’

  ‘No, I mean it’s impressive that you managed to dig all this up.’

  Isidore tried his best to look modest. ‘I have a small talent for—’

  ‘Snooping,’ Gabriel interrupted. ‘Being nosy.’

  ‘No, it’s healthy curiosity. Being aware. I’m sort of a Renaissance man myself.’

  Gabriel looked at Frankie. ‘Modesty is one of Isidore’s more endearing qualities. You do realise that when he enters a room he has to walk sideways?’ Frankie frowned in incomprehension. ‘Otherwise his swollen head will get stuck in the door.’

  Looking back at Isidore, he said, ‘OK, you. Good work. So the Monas is a magical seal created by a sixteenth-century madman.’

  ‘Inspired madman.’

  ‘OK. Inspired madman. Now what about his great-great-great-great-granddaughters?’

  ‘I think you missed a few greats there. But let’s see. Well, to begin with, the sisters practise alchemy themselves. But of the less esoteric kind. They make perfumes, beverages and bath products based on spagyric principles.’

  ‘Spa-what?’

  ‘Spagyric. To separate and reassemble. Breaking down the raw plant material into its active components and then remixing it along with the mineral residue—the alkaline ash—to become a whole balanced entity again.’

  Gabriel remembered the table with the chemistry equipment in the Monk House kitchen. ‘I think I saw their laboratory. So they sell this stuff?’

  ‘Yes, on the Internet.’

  Gabriel grimaced. ‘This sounds very kooky. Did you happen to stumble onto any personal information about the sisters?’

  ‘Of course. And fascinating it is too. Minnaloushe Monk is thirty-six; Morrighan is a year older. Their mother passed away when they were in their teens—’

  ‘Just like Robbie,’ Frankie interrupted.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Isidore shrugged. ‘Anyway, Gabriel was right in thinking there’s money in that family. By all accounts they do not want for anything and, like the lilies of the field, they need not toil or weave. Their commercial enterprises on the Internet are just pocket money for them.’

  ‘So let me guess,’ Gabriel said. ‘They also ke
ep themselves occupied with charity. And they do the season. Glyndebourne, Wimbledon, Henley, the Cartier polo day? Late-night dinners at Gordon Ramsay’s or Sketch? The south of France for summer, Aspen for winter?’

  ‘Actually, no. Charity is high on their list but they also follow pursuits which are not exactly common among ladies who lunch. In Minnaloushe’s case, great-grandpapa Dee’s genes are hard at work. She holds a doctorate from Imperial College and did her thesis on the topic of memory.’

  ‘She’s a neurologist?’

  ‘No, she’s an academic. Her fields are mathematics and philosophy. She seems to be a perpetual student, though. No record of her ever teaching anywhere. But she has published several papers. I’ve downloaded a few and printed them out for you.’ Isidore slid a slim folder over to Gabriel. ‘Here you go. Bedtime reading for the brave.’

  Gabriel touched the folder listlessly. ‘Thanks. I can’t wait.’

  ‘As far as I can make out, the response to her theories has been mixed. There are some who think she’s the next Einstein, but most of her peers think she’s a total flake. Part of the problem is that she seems to link religion—or at least spirituality—to what most scientists regard as simple brain function.’

  ‘Echoes of Papa Dee again.’

  ‘As you say. Anyway, she hasn’t published anything for five years.’

  ‘So what does she do with herself these days?’

  ‘Well, apart from mixing bubble bath, she also runs another business from home selling African masks.’

  Gabriel remembered the wall lined with masks in the living room at Monk House. At the time he had wondered why anyone would want to live under the glare of all those empty eye sockets.

  ‘The business is small but extremely lucrative,’ Isidore continued. ‘I’ve accessed her auction site and some of those masks sell for several thousands of pounds. Not that she needs the money. This is just extra icing for the lady.’

  ‘And Morrighan? What gets her out of bed?’

  ‘Well, she’s an environmentalist. Very passionate about the welfare of Mother Earth.’

  Gabriel groaned. ‘Just what I need: another tree-hugger. Remember Danielle?’ For a period of six months he had dated a woman who, among other things, had persuaded him to tie himself to a tree trunk for five days in deepest midwinter to protest against the building of a flyover. Very embarrassing and not his style at all. He had a vivid recollection of feeling wet and miserable and messing up one knee, which still hurt in cold weather. And he also remembered that her friends were dauntingly well-meaning and quite devoid of any sense of humour. Thinking back, it was amazing he managed to stick it out with Danielle for so long. The sex must have been really good.

  Isidore cocked an eye at him. ‘Of course I remember Danielle. But I don’t think you get my drift here. You’re thinking of the foot fungus and Birkenstock brigade. Morrighan is on another level altogether. She’s a genuine eco-warrior. She’d eat Danielle for breakfast. Morrighan belongs to an all-female group that is very militant indeed. These women run with the wolves, man. They take no prisoners. She also has a record. She has been arrested three times and the last time she broke a police officer’s jaw. It landed her in a ton of trouble.’ Isidore slid a page with a grainy colour picture out of the folder. ‘I printed this from the Internet. The one with the red cap is Morrighan.’

  ‘Good grief.’ Gabriel stared at the image. It showed two women in combat gear rappelling down the side of a glass skyscraper like a pair of kamikaze trapeze artists. They were unfurling a monstrously big banner between them. The banner was still limp and Gabriel was only able to make out the first word of the slogan: Boycott.

  ‘Boycott what?’

  ‘Borgesse. They own and finance enterprises directly involved in genetically engineered food products. And they’ve taken an interest in fracking.’

  Gabriel looked back at the picture again. ‘So the lady has a taste for danger. And violence. Interesting.’

  ‘I thought you’d like her. For the past two years, however, she’s been quiet. I don’t know what she’s been up to during that time. Nothing that made headlines—that’s all I can tell you.’

  Frankie touched the printout with her one finger. ‘Does Minnaloushe share her sister’s activism?’

  ‘Well, actually…’ Isidore paused and started to smile. ‘Minnaloushe isn’t quite as physically oriented as Morrighan, you might say. Although, no—her interests are very physical indeed.’ The smile was now a grin.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I think you should find out for yourself. Seeing is believing. You’ll find her at this address in, oh…’ Isidore peered at his watch, ‘an hour from now.’

  Gabriel glanced at the piece of paper. ‘The Wine of Life Society?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve already made a reservation for you to sit in.’

  ‘Sit in on what?’

  ‘Never mind. You just make sure you get there in time. Sorry, Frankie,’ Isidore said apologetically. ‘The reservation is only for one.’

  ‘That’s all right. I need to get back home to William.’ Frankie stood up. ‘By the way,’ she said, as she gathered up her handbag, ‘what about partners? Do the sisters have significant others?’

  ‘They certainly have “others”, but I doubt you can call them significant. These two girls believe in playing the field. From what I can gather from the society pages, there seems to be a steady stream of men in their lives. But their boredom threshold must be very low. All the guys they get involved with seem to have a very short shelf-life.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ Frankie held out her hand to Isidore, but then changed her mind and leaned over to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks for going to all this trouble for me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.’

  Isidore ducked his head. ‘No problem. Happy to be of service.’

  She turned to Gabriel. ‘Call me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Another smile for Isidore and she was off, heels clicking, back straight. There was something gallant about Frankie, Gabriel thought. He had forgotten that quality of quiet courage, which had so attracted him when they were together at Oxford.

  ‘Nice girl.’ Isidore touched his cheek. ‘Really nice. Why didn’t the two of you make it? If it were me, I would have held on for dear life. She’s the kind you want to get old with, man. How come you let her get away?’

  Good question. Why had he let her get away? Because he hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes any longer. Because a woman called Melissa Cartwright had crashed into their lives with the impact of a meteorite.

  He shook his head. ‘Ancient history.’ Looking down again at the piece of paper in his hand, he said, ‘Three Lisson Street. This place is in Chelsea?’

  ‘Yup. Only a few blocks away from Monk House itself.’

  ‘The Wine of Life Society. Why don’t you just tell me what that is?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Isidore shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dream of ruining the surprise.’ He grinned widely. ‘But prepare to be wowed!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Although art is indeed not the bread but the wine of life.’ Jean Paul Richter, 1763–1825. The words were painted in flowing script high up on one wall. And below it: ‘Art isn’t something you marry, it is something you rape.’ Edgar Degas, 1834–1917.

  Not exactly politically correct, Gabriel thought, but then Degas lived in an age when sensibilities were less easily bruised. His eyes travelled round the occupants of the room. Not that this lot would be easily offended. They were all men and there was a decided air of bonhomie and a sort of faded rakishness about the group. Half-filled wine bottles—each tagged with the owner’s name—shared space with easels, desks stacked with huge sheets of paper, pencils, paintbrushes, rags and boxes filled with stubby bits of chalk. It had already been explained to him that once you became a member, you were not only encouraged to bring along your own booze but were also allowed to leave it at the club for the next
time—hence the identifying name tags. The air smelled pungently of turpentine, which surely must deaden any palate to the more subtle nuances of a wine’s bouquet, but he had the distinct impression it wouldn’t trouble this crowd. And, judging from what he could see, it would be no problem for most of the men present to polish off a bottle or two in one sitting. He glanced at his watch. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning but the cork was out of most of the bottles already.

  A slightly built man with white hair and a straggly beard walked up to him. ‘Poetry or life?’

  ‘Pardon?’ For a moment he thought the guy was trying to engage him in a philosophical discussion.

  The man tapped the clipboard he was holding. ‘Are you signed up for the two-hour class on Chaucer or for the one-hour life class?’

  Good question. After a moment’s hesitation he ventured, ‘Life.’ Even Isidore wouldn’t make him sit through a hundred and twenty minutes of the Canterbury Tales. Shit, he hoped not. With Isidore you never knew.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Gabriel Blackstone.’

  The man studied the clipboard, one finger—green with pastel dust—travelling down a short list of names. ‘Blackstone. Yes.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Easel three back there has been reserved for you. Make yourself at home. We’ll start in another five minutes.’

  This was worse than Chaucer. He couldn’t draw on the left side or the right side of his brain. Isidore was going to burn in hell for this. Approaching easel three with trepidation, he noticed a small leaflet tacked up against the crossbar.

  A haven for professional and semi-professional visual artists, writers and poets, the Wine of Life Society was first established in 1843 and has survived two World Wars, a Depression, and several attempts to have it change its strict policy of gentlemen only. The club does, however, open its doors to ladies on the first Saturday of every month. Guest visits by gentlemen interested in joining the club can be arranged for a nominal fee.

  No ladies. And this was not the first Saturday of the month. Isidore had told him Minnaloushe Monk would be present. If no women were allowed, what the hell was he doing here?