The Consort Read online

  THE CONSORT

  By Idun Asther

  © 2017 Idun Asther

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this work may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without the author's express permission.

  Visit the author's website: www.IdunAsther.net

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons — living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  The Consort

  By Idun Asther

  Autumn 1901.

  "Our book, Mr Ash!" The triumphant cry echoed up the long stairwell. "We've been accepted for publication!"

  Taking two steps at a time, a tall, copper-haired man of about forty hurried up the stairs to his rooms at London University, blue eyes alight with excitement; the man was Professor Hogarth of the university's Ancient History department.

  Ash had been sitting at a desk, head bent over some papers, when he heard the news. He leapt up with a smile and exclaimed, the moment the door was flung open: "Professor, that is wonderful."

  Francis Ash had the golden curls and classical looks of an Antinous or Alexander. In addition, he had an excellent character and a most enquiring mind, and his interest in the occult and the beliefs of ancient cultures was second only to the professor's. What he lacked in experience with the subject, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. He was an orphan with some inherited family fortune, and he had never formed a personal attachment before Professor Hogarth had taken him under his wing.

  Hogarth stood in the doorway and looked at Ash for a moment, his expression extraordinarily pleased. Then he shrugged off his coat and hat and threw them haphazardly over the hatstand beside the door, before approaching the desk with a few long strides.

  "Without your invaluable assistance, I have no doubt I would still be struggling with the likes of Horus and Anubis. The Deities of Ancient Egypt would not be seeing the light of day for a good long while yet."

  Ash blushed. "I merely aided you in your research, sir. If anything, it is my family's eccentric book collection that deserves the credit."

  "No false modesty now," the professor said, undeterred. "Your findings about the more obscure gods prompted me to start this book in the first place. At the very least, you've taken my mind into more adventurous directions."

  Ash laughed. "Are you referring to Set, sir?"

  Hogarth joined in his laughter. Set — the god of the desert and storms, among a number of other things — reputedly had white skin and red hair, and his followers were meant to be red-haired also. Ash had mentioned him in particular — with a glance at Hogarth's dark red hair, which he had always rather admired — as a potential figure of interest to the professor.

  Hogarth had poured them each a glass of celebratory port, and now set them both down on the desk. "I was in part referring to Set, yes, but you have helped me in so many ways. And that is why I must insist that you accept some form of reward, even if you stubbornly continue to decline a proper fee."

  "Sir, working with you has afforded me insights and experiences far beyond any material worth. Money means nothing by comparison." Ash was being utterly sincere.

  Hogarth smiled indulgently. "I thought you might say something like that. That is why I have searched high and low for an item I know you will find irresistible."

  "Sir?" His student was intrigued.

  Hogarth drew a small green velvet pouch from his pocket and held it out to his assistant. "This is not payment, Mr Ash. It is a gift — the kind of gift the recipient refuses at his own peril."

  "That sounds very ominous indeed, professor."

  Professor Hogarth laughed out loud. "My apologies. I merely meant that to return a gift of protection to its giver must surely be unwise."

  "Protection?" Francis Ash's eyes widened, and he drew open the pouch and poured the contents into his open palm: it was an amulet on a golden chain.

  "The Eye of Horus!"

  The professor smiled. "Do you like it?"

  Ash held it up, admiring the way the afternoon light through the mullioned window caressed the elegant pendant. "It is perfect, professor." He smiled softly. "Thank you. I shall treasure this gift always."

  Professor Hogarth looked fondly at him. "I wish you would allow me to give you something more. Something grander."

  "This is quite grand enough, sir," Ash said sincerely, then added jokingly, "I doubt there could be a better gift except, possibly, a journey to the very realm of the gods themselves."

  Hogarth gazed at him thoughtfully for a long moment, but then he laughed heartily.

  Winter 1902.

  When a young man from Hampstead disappeared at Highgate Cemetery, the public reaction was shock and fear. A few days later, after a further disappearance was reported in the same peculiar location, some Londoners became very much intrigued. Amongst these were Professor Hogarth and the students regularly attending his informal, private lectures on the occult.

  On a chilly afternoon in December, the professor entered the wood-panelled backroom of the Knight and Cloak public house. He was brandishing that week's edition of The Illustrated London News, and his deep blue eyes were positively sparkling.

  "Have you seen?" he asked of the small assembly, waving the paper excitedly. "Have you all read it?"

  Half a dozen young faces looked back at him with varying degrees of curiosity and unease, and there was much murmuring.

  One of those present was Francis Ash. "Is it true, sir, that both men have vanished within the cemetery itself?" asked Ash, adding somewhat gleefully, "And that there is no earthly explanation for it?"

  One of the young men looked a little faint, the eyes of two others darting worriedly between the professor and Ash, awaiting the response.

  "So it would appear, Mr Ash," said Hogarth. He smiled at his students. "But one should never entirely believe the newspapers. If there is something unearthly going on at Highgate, it would certainly be better to investigate such matters in person."

  "In person, professor?" A bespectacled pair of eyes widened comically. "You intend to go there?"

  Professor Hogarth looked down at the seated youth from his considerable height with some disappointment. "Is this not the kind of opportunity we have all been waiting for, Mr Farnham?" He sighed and took a seat. "Here is a true mystery within our area of interest at last, gentlemen. Are you not the least bit curious?"

  Any lack of curiosity was vehemently denied, but it was easy to tell that most of the young men were distinctly more frightened than curious, so Professor Hogarth decided to set their minds at ease for the time being.

  "Well, perhaps you are right. An expedition to Highgate at this stage might not be advisable." Secretly, he felt certain at least one of them would be eager enough.

  There were clearly audible sighs of relief all around.

  "My apologies, professor." Farnham sighed. "I admit, the idea does frighten me." Most of the others nodded their agreement.

  Professor Hogarth sighed. "I understand perfectly, gentlemen. I would wish no harm on any of you, and we should at the very least await further reports before putting ourselves at risk."

  Ash was crestfallen. However, he was willing to bow to his professor's judgement and so, without complaint, he joined the others for a round of ale, sandwiches, and theorising on the disappearances.

  The theories put forth ran the gamut from the newly risen dead to vampires and other ghouls, and the professor contributed little, but he listened with evident amusement. The group dispersed after about two hours. It had been decided they would keep watch on the papers for further developments, as it was too soon to form a workable hypothesis.

  Francis As
h stood to leave, after the others had already said their farewells, and was nearly at the door when Professor Hogarth called after him.

  "Mr Ash, another moment of your time?" Hogarth smiled across the room at him and waved the paper once more.

  Ash approached him, full of anticipation, for all the earlier excitement had returned to his professor's face.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Can I count on your nerves at least?"

  Ash grinned, green eyes alight with adventure. "When do we go?"

  "Excellent!" Professor Hogarth leapt to his feet and clapped the young man on his back. "Let me see — tomorrow is Sunday, so there are no classes to get in the way, and we can sleep in and be well rested. I suggest we meet outside the university at eight p.m. and take a carriage to Highgate."

  "Shall I bring anything?"

  Hogarth looked at him thoughtfully. "I shall take care of a lantern and candles myself. And my revolver, I suppose." He smiled. "Bring merely yourself and your excellent constitution, Mr Ash, and wrap up warm. It gets fiercely cold on the Highgate hill at night."

  "I shall, sir. Thank you for asking me along."

  Professor Hogarth returned his smile. "Who else but you, Mr Ash?" Ash flushed a little. "I don't know what we shall find at Highgate, but I would hazard a guess that you have examined the woodcuts in the paper closely."

  "I have. They feature the area around Egyptian Avenue. I thought that would interest you, sir."

  Hogarth looked thoughtful. "It might be merely a case of using the most picturesque part of the cemetery for the images. Newspaper illustrators do like their drama. Then again, perhaps there was a night watchman on the scene who knows more than the public has been told. Either way, the location is rather too intriguing to ignore."

  Ash nodded. "I quite agree."

  "As I knew you would." Hogarth smiled. "Well, goodnight, Mr Ash."

  "Goodnight, professor."

  "Better get a good rest tonight. I fear we shall get none tomorrow night."

  ◆◆◆

  The following evening, the intrepid investigators were making their way to Highgate in the interior of a Brougham. The further they left the centre of London behind, the gloomier the night felt to them, enclosing the rattling carriage and its two passengers like a black cloak. The sky was hung heavily with clouds so, despite the full moon, it was dark. Little comfort was to be derived from either the dim gas lamps lining some of the streets or their own carriage lamps.

  It was cold indeed, and Francis Ash — wrapped tightly in a long black woollen cloak and wearing a hat, gloves and scarf — was glad he had taken his professor's advice about dressing for an icy night. The hat sat tilted on his shock of golden locks, its shadow obscuring one eye as Ash huddled in the corner, peering out the window of the carriage. His scarf half covered his chin and, above it, puffs of breath were made visible by the chill like swathes of mist.

  Professor Hogarth sat beside him, alternately looking out his own window and assessing his student. His gloved hands lay atop one another on the round handle of his walking cane, which stood on the floor between his long legs and the folds of his overcoat. He had foregone wearing a hat, but his copper curls brushed the top of a long scarf, wound three times around his neck. His posture was straight but not rigid, as if he was poised to leap from the carriage the moment it would come to a standstill.

  The rhythmic clattering of the horse's hooves on the cobblestones was the only sound to distract the two travellers from their private contemplations.

  When they were mere minutes away from the cemetery, Professor Hogarth mentioned that he had instructed the cabbie to take them to the Highgate end of the tramline; it would not do to be seen arriving at the very gate of the cemetery at a time like this.

  Ash nodded his agreement. "We might be stopped by an overzealous constable," he guessed.

  "We might at that." Professor Hogarth smiled, pleased at his student's grasp of the situation. "I trust you took my advice and are well rested?"

  "I am, sir." Ash sat up straight and turned to face Hogarth more directly. "Though I confess, I was initially kept awake by a fair degree of anticipation."

  "As was I," Hogarth admitted. Both men chuckled nervously. "Would you care for a cigarette, Mr Ash?"

  Ash stripped off one glove and extracted a cigarette from the proffered case, then allowed Hogarth to light it for him. He took a deep drag from it before asking, "Sir, what do you expect to find, truly? Do you have any theories?"

  Hogarth lit his own cigarette. "No, Mr Ash. To be honest, I am not yet certain these disappearances have a supernatural explanation at all." Francis Ash looked disappointed at this, and the professor laughed. "But who knows? At this stage, I simply do not know what to expect. But I am concerned that this spirit of Highgate should be so choosy about his victims. As yet, children and the elderly appear safe to wander the mossy paths at night."

  "As does the fairer sex," Ash interceded with a frown between his brows.

  "So it would seem."

  "Though perhaps they choose not to. It would hardly be sensible for them at the best of times, would it?" Ash pondered.

  "True." Professor Hogarth drew deeply on his cigarette, and the hand holding it was shaking a little. His eyes met Ash's for an instant, and his lips parted as though he was about to speak. Then he seemed to change his mind and turned to gaze out his window once more. "Nearly there," he murmured.

  A minute or two later, they heard the cabbie shout something, and then the carriage came to a halt.

  Hogarth opened his door and jumped out, his heels clanking on cobble. Ash was right behind him. "It is freezing," the professor muttered, pulling his scarf up over his mouth before paying the driver.

  Ash tightened his own scarf, staying in the wind shadow of the carriage until the very moment the clatter of hooves recommenced. As the carriage went off without them, Ash's eyes followed it longingly.

  "Have you changed your mind?" came the professor's gentle voice from right beside him. "It is not too late, you know."

  Ash faced him. There was an offer in the professor's eyes. An understanding. "No," he said, before good sense could gain the upper hand. "No, I have not." He spoke with some difficulty.

  The professor reached out, laid a comforting hand on Ash's shoulder, and said, "Let us go then."

  Ash nodded, and they were once again on their way, this time on foot.

  ◆◆◆

  It was not a long walk, but a steep and chilling one. They passed gnarled, bare trees — their branches outlined starkly against the occasional glimpse of moonlight, looking like the frozen fingers of giants reaching up into the sky.

  "Not far now," the professor murmured, half the sound lost in the wool of his scarf, the rest of it torn from his lips by the wind.

  Ash heard nonetheless, picking up speed to sooner reach the dubious shelter of the cemetery trees and stones.

  Soon, they found themselves at the Swain's Lane entrance gate and, gloved hand hovering above the handle, Professor Hogarth whispered, "Mr Ash, if—"

  Francis Ash reached to place his own gloved hand over his professor's as if to add his own strength and determination to the other man's and, with a brief exchange of glances, they pressed the handle down as one. The gate creaked open with a wail of distress. In a nearby tree, a crow shrieked and fluttered into the air.

  A few deep breaths, and they started down the frozen path ahead. Their boots made a crunching sound on the ground where firm soil was partially obscured by frost. Unconsciously, both men attempted to soften the sound. Their long cloaks brushed past rough-made stones, and thorny shrubs tried to grasp them by their clothes as they passed, as if trying to pull them down to join the dead.

  The wind howled through the iron gates behind them like restless spirits. Were it summer, there would be a rustling of leaves and flowers but, right then, there was nothing so comfortingly alive here but the hardiest of perennials and the elements themselves.

  "Wait a moment, Mr
Ash." The professor halted, opening the canvas bag in his hand to retrieve a lantern and candle. "We might lose the moon again behind a cloud at any moment."

  "Let me hold that, sir." Ash opened the lantern, while the professor searched his pocket for matches. He used his hand to shield the candle placed inside as the professor lit it.

  A slowly strengthening glow spread about the two men, and they shared an uncertain smile.

  "There. We have light. What can possibly hurt us now?" Professor Hogarth declared with laboured cheer.

  "Nothing at all, sir." Ash took in the numerous intersecting paths around them, at something of a loss. "Where to now?"

  "I believe Egyptian Avenue is to be found in that direction." The professor pointed out the widest path.

  "Egyptian Avenue..." Ash mused as they continued on. "I wonder why that is where all traces seem to end. I believe the area is densely built up with mausoleums. Perhaps it is simply too difficult to track anything there?"

  "Shall we attempt to find out?" the professor suggested. "After all, if there is something uniquely Egyptian afoot in the area, who better to solve the puzzle than you and I?"

  Francis Ash chuckled. "Quite right."

  Newly determined, they set out for the moodiest and most elaborately built part of the cemetery, the mausoleums growing taller and more ornate as they walked. When they reached the slope down to Egyptian Avenue, both slowed their steps unconsciously.

  "Should we split up to cover more ground?" Ash suggested hesitantly.

  Professor Hogarth gave him a look of admiration. "A brave suggestion, Mr Ash, but no, I don't believe that would be advisable."

  Ash nodded, secretly relieved at the response. "I am certain you are right, professor."

  A gust of wind rustled through the tall, truly majestic tree dead ahead of them with a hollow, desperate sound. A fine mist of snow descended all around the coniferous giant.

  "The Lebanese Cedar," Professor Hogarth stated in a hushed voice. "Not far to go now."