"Calvaria Club," I said. "The skull club. I think they called themselves the Calvaria Club." My mind's eye was staring at a little piece of paper that had been stuck in Anna Belmont's desk. Calvaria Club. The implications of those two words hit me so hard I could barely breathe.
"Latin for skull, you mean?" Hilary said, not noticing my distress. "Interesting idea. I'll have a look and see if there's any such reference when I have the time. I have to get back to work," she said, looking at her watch. "Are you finished with your studies, or are you going to come back with me?"
"I'm coming back with you," I said. "This has been very helpful." She had no idea just how helpful she'd been. "Thanks for bringing me here."
"I enjoyed your company," she said. "You're a kindred spirit."
I went back to the Bramley and had another go at the pile of papers. This time I knew what I was looking for. This time I paid attention. It made a huge difference. I went immediately to the minutes of the meeting of the men who collected skulls, the Calvaria Club. For an unofficial group they had a pretty formal way of doing business. The minutes listed everyone in attendance, meeting start time, who was chairing, and so on. Piper was obviously a regular. His name appeared at almost every meeting over a number of years. And there it was, the discrepancy I'd been looking for. I grabbed my copy of The Traveler and the Cave, and, hands shaking, started flipping through the pages. Within only a few minutes, I'd found the proof.
I then went back to the correspondence, glancing at each piece just long enough to ascertain it wasn't what I was looking for, before flipping to the next. It took me a couple of hours to find it all, although further proof was not necessary. There was just something else I had to know.
Having found it, I just sat in that cramped study carrel feeling awful. As the implications of everything sank in, I began to feel literally physically sick. I'd started on this little exercise because I wanted to find out what happened the night Anna died. Somewhere along the line—it was not too difficult to identify when—the goal became instead to prove that the new man in my life was right, that the Venus was authentic, the diaries were authentic, the man was authentic. Sitting in that cave in the Biikks, I had believed it all so completely. And now I found I was wrong. The discrepancy was so huge, I was surprised I was the only one who'd noticed. Except that maybe I hadn't been. That thought turned my heart to ice.
The truth of the matter was this: On at least three separate occasions in 1900, Piper was listed as being in attendance at the Brook and Hare, at the same time there was an entry in the diaries from either Budapest or Lillafured. Piper was not only not the author of the diaries about the discovery of the Magyar Venus in Hungary, he hadn't even been there.
It was all a lie. It had been a lie back then. It was a lie now. I hadn't been able to reconcile the views of the author of the diaries with those of the presenter at the Calvaria Club because they were not one and the same. Piper had lied about everything, about traveling to Budapest, about writing the diaries, finding the cave, the skeleton, the Venus. All lies, pure and simple. He had taken the drawings, the detailed description of the project, and the skull, and claimed them as his own. And if Piper had lied, so had Karoly Molnar. And if Karoly had lied about this, he had lied about everything. In an instant my disappointment turned to rage. I was going to humiliate this man for deceiving me and everybody else. By the time I was finished with him, he would never hold down a decent job again.
I asked Hilary to direct me to a photocopier. I was going to make sure I kept a record of the damning evidence with me. That done, I asked her if I could use her computer to do an Internet search. It took about three minutes and only one search, to British Telecom, and I was ready to roll. I could see her looking at me wondering what was up. Perhaps I looked a little flushed.
Finally, I called the airline to change my flight, got a room at the hotel I'd stayed in the previous evening, and left a message for the Divas that I'd staying another night. I did not leave one for Karoly.
I knew who had written the diaries. I still didn't know who had driven Anna Belmont to her death, although I knew why. And I didn't know who had killed Mihaly Kovacs. I did know that there was something lurking behind all this that was almost too horrible to contemplate.
CHAPTERELEVEN
January 08
My hopes and dreams have been dashed. I am told by those more skilled and knowledgeable than I, that what we have found is the skeleton of a man who died a mere 200 years ago. A gypsy, most likely, as these people wander through this region of the world. I am also told they are a bellicose people, much given to violence and other crimes, which would perhaps explain the blow this departed soul endured. I find this very difficult to accept, however well meaning and well schooled the individuals who espouse these opinions may be. I have seen these gypsies, do not consider them any more violent than the rest of society, but more to the point, I have never seen anything on their persons that would hark back to the beads buried with the man in the cave, nor, in my discussions with them—for I have tested this hypothesis with the gypsies themselves despite warnings not to do so—has there been any mention of a tradition of staining their dead with red dye.
I had hoped that this discovery would enable me to join with others of like interests, and perhaps allow me to augment my allowance through some teaching opportunity or the like. Instead I find myself rejected by those whose approval I sought, and, worse still, almost penniless.
I believe I must also admit to myself that T will never join me. When I was busy and excited about my work, I did not notice as the months passed. My expectations were no doubt unreasonable, but still I am lost. I fear that the cold dark cloud will descend on me again. I am not certain I will survive it this time.
September 20/21
The next morning I was out at Gatwick and on to a flight to Edinburgh. I knew who had written the diaries. It was a simple process of elimination. They were, after all, written in English. The author of the diaries had described the excavation team as Zoltan Nadasdi, son of the landlord in Budapest and Lillafiiired, Peter and Pal Fekete, sons of Fekete Neni. The diaries made it pretty clear none of these people spoke English, and even if they did, to write with such facility in a second, or maybe even third language was almost impossible to believe. That left, among the team members, S. B. Morison. S. B. Morison was not identified, no adjectives or descriptors were attached to the name. That was because there was no reason to do so. S. B. Morison was the author of the diaries.
Morison had written three letters to the Bramley Museum, one asking them to look at the skull, and theories as to its age, the other to tell them how it was to be delivered, and that drawings of the skeleton in situ were with the skull, so that Mr. Piper would see how it was found. There was no record of a reply. The diaries made it clear what that reply had been: the skeleton was a gypsy, dead for only two hundred years. A third, sad letter asked to be considered for employment at the Bramley, given the author's constrained circumstances. A job offer, I am sure, never came.
It was all relatively easy, once one was disabused of the notion that the author was Piper. The clues were there. Right at the start, for example, the author talked about coming down to London and on to Budapest. Piper was from London. He wouldn't have had to go to London first. There were several hints that I, and others, missed.
S. B. Morison's letters to Piper had given addresses in both Edinburgh and Budapest. I'd simply gone to the British Telecom online directory, keyed in the name and Edinburgh address and found there was an S. M. Morison living there. I called the number from my hotel in London, spoke to a very nice woman, told her I was doing research on Morisons with one r, that being an unusual spelling, and that I was particularly interested in an S. B. Morison who had traveled to Eastern Europe around 1900 to do some scientific research. Within five minutes, I had an appointment for tea the next afternoon.