Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
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the man whom Hugh did not appear, as yet, to have seen.
‘What do you think Dr Lloyd Rees took from you, Hugh?’ he asked quietly.
‘A brooch. Technically a gold fibula.’ After a moment’s hesitation Hugh’s voice was his own again. The shadowy figure had gone.
Meryn nodded gravely. He relaxed. ‘And why did she take it, do you know? Presumably she is not by nature a thief.’
‘She wants it to show on a TV programme. Part of the publicity for her book.’
‘So she hasn’t stolen it? She intends to give it back?’
Hugh shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’
‘And did she not ask if she could borrow it?’
Hugh nodded. ‘I said no.’
‘Why?’
‘Because –’ Hugh shook his head from side to side vehemently. ‘Because I didn’t want her to have it, Meryn!’ He hesitated again. ‘Don’t ask me why. I was feeling uncooperative, perhaps. Or grouchy, as you so charmingly put it. Or just angry with her. But she shouldn’t have taken it.’
‘If indeed she has.’
‘If indeed she has.’ Hugh sighed. ‘I lent it to Hamish Macleod.’ He paused. ‘He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He told me he left it in the box. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch it either.’ He looked up and met Meryn’s steady gaze. ‘There is something about the brooch which is odd.’
‘What about you? Have you touched it, Hugh?’
Hugh nodded.
‘What happened?’ Meryn was looking thoughtful.
‘Nothing happened. At least –’ Hugh shrugged. ‘It felt strange. Powerful. I assumed that was because I knew how old and rare it was. But …’
‘But?’ Meryn prompted after a minute or two.
Hugh shook his head. ‘Artefacts like that have a powerful effect on the imagination.’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word evil. His father had felt it. Perhaps so had Wheeler. He had always wondered why the latter had given up the brooch so easily. Maybe this irrational fear was experienced by anyone who came near it. That would explain everything.
Meryn was nodding sagely. ‘So, what did you imagine, my friend?’ There was a slight twinkle in his eye.
‘That the brooch would give me an unpleasant insight into the head of the man to whom it had belonged.’
‘Who was?’
‘Venutios, King of the Brigantes.’
‘And you don’t want Dr Lloyd Rees to share your insight?’
Hugh opened his mouth to answer, said nothing, and shrugged. ‘I didn’t want her to be harmed.’
‘Harmed in what way?’
Hugh sighed. ‘Something happened when she left the room. The sudden cold. The atmosphere. It didn’t make sense at the time. I thought it was me. The quarrel I’d had with her. But now,’ he looked up with a frown, ‘I’m frightened, Meryn. I think the brooch could be dangerous. That’s why I came to see you.’
Meryn sat for a long time after Hugh left, staring deep into the smouldering embers of the fire, reaching with tentative fingers into the past. Hugh had left him a postcard of the brooch, its exquisite craftsmanship obvious in the intricate swirls of gold and the jewelled colours of the enamels as it sat on its black velvet plinth in the museum showcase. The card rested on his knee as his mind quested the darkness behind the glowing logs at his feet. The craftsman who had made it had been proud of this his most beautiful achievement. It was an artefact fit for a god. But it had not been given to a god. Meryn frowned. The shadowy figure who was stalking Hugh was not alone. There were others there, drifting in the room, conjured from the otherworld by the very thought of this piece of jewellery. Who else had been affected by it, he wondered. He shivered as his thoughts strayed to the museum where it had lain, the malign chill of its presence cut off from the world by its glass case. Conservators and curators had admitted to him more than once in private that they could feel the vibes coming off some of the treasures in their care. Alone, when the public had gone, in the empty galleries or the work rooms behind the scenes they saw and felt echoes of the past which were far from dormant. This brooch had probably done the same.
He lifted the picture off his knee and studied it in the flickering glow of the firelight. At some point in its existence it had been imbued with power which, whatever the original intention, was now malign. Why? By whom? How? Why had these sticky threads of danger remained to contaminate all who touched it? He looked back into the fire. Tendrils of grey smoke were seeping out into the room and he screwed up his eyes with a frown, sensing a swirl of conflict, of love and hate, of fear and tragedy as the last of the logs collapsed into the bed of ash and for the time being the window into the shadows closed.
‘So, Dr Lloyd Rees, are you coming to hand in your notice? As a popular author, you clearly no longer need the pittance you earn with us.’ Hugh had just managed to ease his car into a much coveted parking space near George Square. He was pocketing his car keys as he turned and found himself face to face with Viv.
She could feel her face flaming in response to the comment. Somehow she clamped down on the retort which fizzed in her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper again. She forced herself to smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me a while, yet, Hugh. Someone has to try and bring our attitudes out of the ark and into the world of modern research, after all.’
Damn! Why had she said that? Why antagonise him further?
He had started it, though.
She gripped the strap of the tote bag on her shoulder until her knuckles turned white. Don’t say another word, Viv. Wait for him to mention the brooch. Did he even know it was missing? If he didn’t he soon would if he was heading into the office. She chewed her lips nervously, watching as he bent to retrieve from the pavement the heavy briefcase which he had just pulled out of the car.
For a moment they both stood unmoving there on the footpath. It was the professor who turned away first. Swinging on his heel without another word he strode off, carrying his heavy case with him. He had said nothing about the pin. At the corner he veered away from the office, walking briskly into the square. In spite of herself she smiled with relief. At least they were not going to the same place, but he wouldn’t want to carry that briefcase far.
Following him at a safe distance she headed away from him, seeking the sanctuary of the small book-lined room she had called her own for five years now on the first floor of the small Georgian terraced building on the west side of the square.
Turning up the steps she ducked in through the door to look in at the office where the departmental secretary, Heather James, was sitting at her computer, her eyes fixed on the screen. The coffee machine was gurgling quietly. ‘Can I grab one on my way upstairs?’ Viv dropped her bag on the only empty chair and reached towards the tray of mugs. ‘I suppose you saw that through the window?’
‘Saw what?’ Heather’s large blue eyes seemed to grow larger behind her glasses as she glanced up, then went back to her letter.
‘The Prof heading off towards the library rather than come in here with me.’ Viv grinned. She poured herself a coffee, then realised that her legs were shaking. She sat down abruptly beside her bag, cupping her hands around the mug.
Heather raised an eyebrow. Her light-hearted daily flirtations with her devastatingly attractive boss were part of office life, as was her ability to soothe his notoriously short fuse. ‘Don’t let him get to you, Viv.’ Her fingers flashed across the keyboard; her eyes didn’t leave the screen.
‘It’s hard not to.’
‘But not impossible. He’s done it before, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Bullied