He was referring to the notorious resurrection man and leader of a gang of body-snatchers who had nearly done for him and Malinferno both. Malinferno shuddered at being reminded of the incident.
‘I have been working on the Egyptian hieroglyphs in my possession. All to no avail, I fear.’
‘Ah.’
Malinferno could hear in the brief monosyllable the sound of Bromhead’s disapproval. Augustus was an antiquarian of some repute, but his obsession was British history. He considered this unseemly fad for the artefacts and symbols of a far-distant land a temporary aberration and complete waste of time. He had told Malinferno so several times, attempting to bring him back to the right and proper course of study by pointing him in the direction of British history, particularly King Arthur and his putative bones, on more than one occasion. Bromhead was deprecating about the significance of the Egyptian pictorial images, and now said so.
‘Take it from me they are no more than a rebus. A puzzle in pictures.’
‘That is not what Champollion thinks.’
Bromhead snorted in derision.
‘That upstart Frenchie? He knows nothing. And besides, has he not gone quiet the last few years?’
Malinferno had to admit that Champollion did seem to have disappeared off the face of scholarship after a brief blaze of early glory. Most English scholars now thought he had gone down a blind alley and, having failed miserably, hidden himself away in shame. The torch was now being carried in England by Thomas Young.
A waiter in a dirty long white apron, which betrayed the signs of several lost battles with the gravy on the plates he served, came and took Malinferno’s order. Both men were silent as the waiter cleared Augustus’ empty plate from the table. After he had gone, Bromhead reached down from his high stool, on which he had to sit to reach the level of the table, and groped for a leather satchel on the floor. When his outstretched fingers failed to reach it, Malinferno took pity. He lifted it up, noting how heavy it was.
‘What do you have in there, Gus? It feels like a whole library of books.’
Bromhead ignored his companion’s deliberate shortening of his first name. He hated being called Gus, and Malinferno knew it. And he knew it was said just to provoke him, so he kept calm. He stroked the battered leather satchel.
‘You are not far wrong there, my friend. It is a whole series of plays in one, in fact.’
Bromhead lifted the flap of the satchel, and extracted a dusty tome from its interior. The leather was dry and cracked, and so old as to be of an indeterminate hue. He reverently tipped the book on its back and laid it on the table, carefully avoiding the wet ring left from the base of his ale mug. He brushed more dust from the book’s surface.
‘I found it in a poky little bookshop in a lane leading off Paternoster Row close by St Paul’s Cathedral. I had never seen the passage before as it was so narrow. And it was only out of curiosity that I ventured down it this time. The only shop open in the lane was a dingy affair that looked as though it had not changed since Jacobean times. The sign over the door read Dole’s Printers, and guessing that there might be some gems mouldering away inside the shop, I went in. The interior was a jumble of pamphlets and badly printed books, overseen by an old man who looked as antique as the shop itself. Indeed he blended so well into his surroundings that I did not see him until I had raised some dust by lifting a few tomes up. It caused him to cough like some diseased sheep. A sort of cross between a bleat and a death-rattle. I apologised and moved to the back of the shop, further away from his ink-stained desk. It was there I found this.’
He placed his hand on the book before them, patting it affectionately like the head of some favoured grandchild. Malinferno could bear the suspense no longer.
‘But what is it that makes you value it so much?’
There were no words embossed on the front of the book or the spine to give away its secret. And Bromhead was clearly determined to keep his companion in suspense a little longer. He was also keen to impress Malinferno with the marvellous bargain he had come across, so he ignored the question and continued his tale.
‘I could tell from the edges of the pages that it was old, because they are not made of paper but of vellum. Sheets of vellum stitched together at the edge, and bound in leather. I knew it would be something rare, but did not wish to reveal my interest to the old man in the shop. However, I could not resist a peep. I idly lifted the cover, and looked inside.’
He mimicked his action in the shop for Malinferno’s benefit. But as Malinferno bent down to examine the contents thus half-revealed, Augustus snapped the cover shut again. A little puff of dust flew out from the edge of the tome, causing Malinferno to sneeze. Apparently, he was to be kept in suspense a while longer.
‘What I saw convinced me I had to purchase the book. I lifted it up, aware for the first time of its weight, and walked across to the old man, who sat on his bench at the door like the guardian of Hell. When he saw what I had found, he sniffed disdainfully.
‘“Why should you want that old thing? It’s only some original manuscript for a set of plays my forebears printed off years ago. I was even told that bad luck follows those who enact the plays, especially that of ‘Cain and Abel’. However, I can sell you a fair copy of the eleventh edition set in Baskerville. Here, I will find it for you.”
‘Before I could protest, he rose creakily from his post, and wove his way through the piles of books that rose like accretions of sea-eroded rocks by the shore. He disappeared for a quarter of an hour in the back of the shop, and I was all for grabbing the manuscript and running. But finally he returned, even more dust-covered than he had been when he left. In his hand he held an old book, poorly bound with gold blocking on it that had faded over the years. But it was still possible to read it. It was called The Play of Adam. He thrust the printed book at me.
‘“Here it is. I knew we had a copy somewhere.”
‘Though I didn’t want it, I saw that I was not going to leave without the book he had found for me. So after some dickering we agreed a price that included both the printed text, and the manuscript. And it was a rare bargain, I can tell you.’
Bromhead finally sat back with a smug look on his round face. Malinferno took his chance, and opened the book at last. Thinking he was going to see the crabbed hand of some Jacobean writer, he was filled with curiosity about the contents. What he saw astonished him, and he turned the crackling pages with great care. Finally, he dared to speak.
‘It’s a medieval manuscript, isn’t it?’
Bromhead nodded eagerly. ‘In a very educated hand. It is not illuminated, but must be the- Take care, you idiot!’
His cry of anguish was not due to Malinferno’s handling of the book, but for the careless waiter who had finally brought Malinferno’s meal. The man dumped the chops and boiled potatoes in gravy heavily on the table, spattering the brown, greasy concoction in which the chops swam perilously close to the precious manuscript. He grunted an apology and would have compounded his error by wiping the surface of the manuscript with his dirty apron. But Bromhead managed to stay his hand, and he retreated grumbling about gentlemen treating the eating-house as if it were a library. While Malinferno tucked into his meal, Bromhead explained his plans for The Play of Adam.
‘I am seeking a theatre that might put on the plays included in this manuscript. It must be hundreds of years since they have last been performed. I have a little money available to me, though I shall need a rich sponsor too. I am to talk to Will Mossop, the manager of the Royal Coburg, this very day.’