The Genesis Secret

45

The videolink fizzed and shut down. Sally had retreated to the sofa, once more, and was quietly crying. Rob went over and out an arm around her.

It was Christine who got it together first. She dried her eyes and said, ‘So. We know he’s in Urfa. That means Cloncurry must have been thinking along the same lines as…’ she sighed, profoundly, ‘as poor Isobel.’

‘You mean the Austen Layard theory?’ asked Rob.

‘Surely. What else? Cloncurry must have reached the same conclusion concerning the Book. So I guess he flew to Kurdistan, with Lizzie, in that private plane.’

Forrester nodded. ‘Yup. Might have been doing it for months. False name, etc. We’ll get onto Turkish air traffic control.’

Rob shook his head. ‘You don’t know Kurdistan! If Cloncurry is clever-and he is-then he could have landed almost unnoticed. In some areas the Turks barely have control. And of course he could have flown to Iraqi Kurdistan and crossed the border. It’s a huge and lawless region. Not exactly Suffolk.’

Sally made an imploring gesture. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We look here. We look in Ireland,‘ said Christine.

‘Sorry?’

‘The Black Book. It’s not in Urfa. I think poor Isobel was wrong. I think the Book is still here.’

The policemen exchanged glances. Rob frowned.

‘How come?’

‘I had several days in a wardrobe to think about the Black Book. And I know the Layard story. But I reckon Layard was just buying off the Yezidi with money and that was why he returned. So I reckon that’s a dead end.’

‘So where is it, then?’

‘Let’s go outside,’ she said. ‘I need fresh air to think it through. Just give me a few minutes.’

Obediently, they trooped out of the office and took the steel lift to the ground floor and exited into the mild summer air. The Dublin sky was now bluish and pale; the breeze was gentle off the river. Tourists were staring at an old boat moored by the quays. A strange parade of gaunt bronze statues blocked half the pavement. The group walked slowly down the quayside.

Dooley pointed to the statues. ‘Memorial for the Famine. Starvelings from the Famine would queue on these docks, waiting for boats to New York.’ He turned and gestured at the shiny new office buildings and the glittery glass atria: ranked along the quays. ‘And all that used to be brothels and wharves and terrible slums, the old red light district. Monto. Where James Joyce went whoring.’ He paused, then added, ‘Now it’s all fusion bistros.’

‘All is changed, changed utterly…’ murmured Christine. And then she went very quiet.

Rob looked at her and could tell at once that she knew something. Her fine mind was engaged.

They stopped at a glamorous new footbridge and watched the grey river water surging torpidly to the Irish Sea.

Then Christine asked Forrester to tell her again the strange word De Savary had written just before he died.

‘“Undish”.’

‘Undish?’ said Rob, bemused.

‘Yeah. Spelled as it sounds. U N D I S H.’

The group was silent. A few seagulls cawed. Sally asked the question that hovered between them. ‘What the hell does undish mean?’

‘We don’t have any idea,’ Forrester replied. ‘It’s got some musical connection but that doesn’t seem relevant.’

Rob observed Christine and saw that she was half smiling. Then she said, ‘James Joyce! That’s it. James Joyce. That’s the answer.’

Rob frowned. ‘I don’t see the relevance.’

‘That’s what Hugo was talking to me about, that was the last thing he said to me, before the gang arrived. In Cambridgeshire.’ She was talking fast, and walking just as fast-towards the footbridge. ‘When I last saw him-De Savary-he said he had a new theory. About the Whaley evidence, the Black Book. And he mentioned Joyce.’ She looked at Rob. ‘And he knew that I was trying to get you to read Ulysses or Portrait-’

‘Without much luck!’

‘Sure. But, still. I’ve been thinking about this while I was imprisoned. And now…Undish.’ She snatched a pen from her handbag and scrawled the word on an opened notebook.

UNDISH.

She looked down at the handiwork. ‘Undish undish undish. There’s no such word. But that’s because De Savary was trying to deceive the killers.’

‘What?’

‘If he’d written the whole word they might have seen it and Cloncurry would have worked it out. He couldn’t have known if they were coming back. So instead he wrote a nonsense word. But a nonsense word that he reckoned someone might work out. Maybe you, Rob. If you ever heard it.’

Rob shrugged. ‘Still don’t get it.’

‘Of course not. You never did read Joyce, despite my enthusiasm! And you’d need to know the books well. Hugo and I loved talking about Joyce. Endless discussions.’

Dooley interrupted impatiently, ‘All right then, so what does undish mean?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything. But it just needs one letter to complete it. The letter T. Then it becomes…’ She scrawled an extra letter next to the word on her notebook and showed it to them. ‘Tundish!’

Rob sighed. ‘That’s great, Christine. But who or what’s a tundish? How the hell does that help Lizzie?’

‘It’s not a common word. It occurs only once, as far as I know, in major English literature. And that’s the point. Because the passage in which it occurs is in Joyce’s first masterpiece. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. And I think there may be a serious clue in there. To help us.’ She looked at the faces all around her. ‘Remember that Joyce knew more about Dublin than any man. He knew everything: every legend, every scrap of information, every tiny anecdote, and he poured them into his books.’

‘OK,’ said Rob, dubiously.

‘Joyce would have known every secret and myth about the Irish Hellfires. And what they did.’ Christine snapped her notebook shut. ‘So I’m guessing that passage might just tell us where to find what we need, to save Lizzie.’ She stared across the river. ‘And there, I believe, is a bookshop.’

Rob swivelled. Just across the spindly new footbridge, on the other side of the torpid Liffey, was a branch of Eason’s bookstore.

The five of them crossed the river and entered the store en masse, rather to the surprise of the young sales assistant. Immediately Christine went to the Irish Classics section. ‘Here.’ She pounced on a copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and flicked feverishly through it. ‘And here…are…the tundish pages.’

‘Read it out.’

‘The tundish passage occurs about halfway through the book. Stephen Dedalus, the hero, the artist of the title, has gone to see his tutor, a Jesuit dean of English studies at University College Dublin. They have a debate about philology. And that’s where we come in. Here’s what it says: “To return to the lamp, the feeding of it is also a nice problem. You must choose the pure oil…using the funnel”.’ She looked up at the assembled, expectant faces. ‘I’m doing dialogue here. Don’t expect an accent.’ Returning to the book, she recited: ‘“What funnel? asked Stephen.-The funnel through which you pour the oil into your lamp.-That? said Stephen. Is that called a funnel? Is it not a tundish?’” Christine stopped reading.

Rob nodded slowly. ‘So they talk about funnels. Where’s the Hellfire stuff?’

‘The precise passage we want is a page or two back.’ Christine flicked and scanned. ‘Here it is. “But the trees in Stephen’s Green were fragrant of rain and the rain-sodden earth gave forth its mortal odour, a faint incense rising upward through the mould from many hearts…he knew that in a moment when he entered the sombre college he would be conscious of a corruption other than Buck Egan and Burnchapel Whaley”.’

Rob nodded eagerly now.

‘Wait, there’s more.’ She turned another page and calmly recited. ‘“It was too late to go upstairs to the French class. He crossed the hall and took the corridor to the left which led to the physics theatre. The corridor was dark and silent but not unwatchful. Why did he feel that it was not unwatchful? Was it because he had heard that in Buck Whaley’s time there was a secret staircase there?”’ She closed the book.

The bookshop was quiet.

‘Ah.’ Said Dooley.

‘Yes!’ said Boijer.

‘But surely it can’t be that obvious,’ Sally said, frowning. ‘A secret staircase. Just like that? Why wouldn’t that horrible gang have had a look?’

‘Maybe they don’t read Joyce,’ said Forrester.

‘It makes sense,’ Dooley surmised. ‘Historically. The Whaley connection is true. There are two great big houses on St Stephen’s Green. And I am sure one of them was built for Richard Burnchapel Whaley.’

‘The building still exists?’ asked Rob.

‘Of course. I think they are still used by University College even now.’

Rob was heading for the door. ‘Come on, guys. What are we waiting for? Please. We’ve got one day.’

Just a couple of minutes of urgent walking brought them to a large Georgian square where lofty terraces overlooked a noble green space. The gardens and lawns had an inviting aspect, sunlight glittering through the greenery. For a moment Rob imagined his daughter playing happily in the gardens. He stifled his piercing sadness. His fear was unquenchable.

The old university college turned out to be one of the largest houses on the square: elegant and chaste, in grey Portland stone. Rob found it difficult to link this impressive building with the homicidal depravities of Burnchapel Whaley and his even crazier son. The sign outside read Newman House: part of University College Dublin.

Dooley buzzed the bell while Christine and Rob loitered on the pavement below. Sally elected to wait on a bench in the square itself: Forrester assigned Boijer to stay with her. There was some debate over the intercom: then Dooley gave his full police title, and the door opened smartly. The hallway beyond was nearly as spectacular as the exterior: with scrolling Georgian plasterwork, grey and white, and exquisite.

‘Wow,’ said Dooley.

‘Yes we’re very proud of it.’

It was a New England American accent. A neatly-suited, middle-aged man trotted along the hallway and extended a hand to Dooley. ‘Ryan Matthewson, Principal of Newman House. Hello, officer…and hello…’

They exchanged names; Forrester showed his badge. The principal took them into the receptionist’s cluttered office.

‘But officers, the break-in was last week, I’m not sure why they’ve sent you now?’ he said.

Rob felt a lowering feeling.

‘Break-in?’ said Dooley. ‘When? Sorry?’

‘It was nothing important. Some days back a group of kids broke into a cellar. Probably drug addicts. We never caught them. They positively brutalized the cellar stairs. God knows why.’ Matthewson shrugged his uninterest. ‘But the Gardai sent a constable at the time. We’ve already been over this. He took all the details…’

Rob and Christine exchanged a melancholy glance. But Dooley and Forrester were not, it seemed, so easily disheartened. Forrester gave the principal the essence of the Burnchapel story, and the Cloncurry search. Rob sensed, by the way he phrased his monologue, that he was trying not to say too much lest he totally confuse and frighten the man. Even so, by the end of the explanation, the principal looked both confused and frightened. At last he said, ‘Extraordinary. So you think these people were looking for the secret stairs? Mentioned in Portrait?’

‘Yes,’ said Christine. ‘Which means we’re probably too late. If the gang didn’t find anything that means there’s nothing here. Merde.’

The principal shook his head, vigorously. ‘Actually, there was no need for them to break in. They could have just come to one of our open days.’

‘You what?’

‘It’s not a mystery. Not at all. Yes there was a secret staircase here, but it was uncovered in 1999. During the major refurbishment. It’s now the main service stairs at the back of the building. There’s nothing secret about it these days.’

‘So the gang looked in the wrong place?’ Dooley said.

Matthewson nodded. ‘Well, yes. I imagine they did. What a cruel irony! They could have just come and asked me where the secret staircase was, and I would have told them. But I guess that’s not the modus operandi of these gangs, is it? Polite inquiry? Well, well.’

‘So where are the stairs?’ Rob asked.

‘Follow me.’

Three minutes later they were at the rear of the building, staring at a narrow wooden staircase that led from the ground floor to a kind of mezzanine level. The staircase was dark and badly lit, hemmed in by sombre oak panelling on either side.

Rob crouched over the wooden planks. He rapped the lowest tread of the stairs with his knuckles. The sound was disappointingly solid. Christine rapped the second tread.

The principal leaned over with an anxious expression. ‘What are you doing?’

Rob shrugged. ‘I just thought, if there is something hidden it must be under one of the treads. So if I hear a hollow sound, maybe…’

‘You intend to rip up the stairs?’

‘Yes.’ Rob said. ‘Of course. What else?’

The principal blushed. ‘But this is one of the most protected buildings in Dublin. You can’t just come in here and take a crowbar to the fittings. I’m so sorry I do understand your predicament but…’

Rob scowled, and sat down on the stairs, trying to repress his anger. Forrester had a short private discussion with Dooley, who turned to Matthewson. ‘You know, it looks like it could do with a lick of paint.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The stairs,’ said Dooley. ‘Bit spartan. Need a touch-up.’

The principal sighed. ‘Well of course we didn’t have enough money to do everything. The plasterwork in the hallway took most of the funds.’

‘We have,’ said Dooley.

‘What?’

‘We have the money, the Gardai. If we have to crack a few stair-rods in pursuit of a legitimate inquiry we will of course reimburse your college for any damage.’ Dooley patted Matthewson on the back. ‘And I think you will find that police refunds can be very generous.’

Matthewson managed a smile. ‘Enough to repair and paint a few stairs? And maybe a classroom or two?’

‘Oh I should think so.’

The principal’s smile broadened: he seemed intensely relieved. ‘OK. I think I can explain that to the Trustees. So yes, let’s do it.’ He paused. ’Though I wonder if you are actually looking in quite the right place.’

‘You have another idea?’

‘Tentatively…Just a notion.’

‘Tell us!!’

‘Well. I’ve always thought…’ He lifted his gaze up the stairs. ‘I have sometimes wondered why this little stairway dog-legs at the top. See there, look, it just turns about. At the top. For no apparent architectural reason. Annoying if you are carrying lots of books: you can trip. It’s so dark. We had a student break an ankle just this Christmas.’

Rob was already running up the stairs with Christine after him. The stairs did indeed turn. They led up to a panelled wall and then shifted abruptly left. Rob stared at the panelled wall, then slapped it. It sounded hollow.

They all looked at each other. Matthewson was now noticeably flushed. ‘Extraordinary! I guess we need to open it up and have a look? We’ve got a chisel and a flashlight in the cellar, I’ll just go and fetch-’

‘Bugger that.’

Reaching in his pocket, Rob produced a Swiss Army Knife and unclasped the sturdiest blade.

Christine, Dooley, Forrester and Matthewson were silent as Rob slammed the blade straight into the panel. The wood was easily pierced. It was thin, like a false panel. Rob rotated the blade to get some purchase, then sliced down and the panel began to give way. Forrester reached in and grabbed the corner of the wooden square, and the two men peeled the complete, yardwide section from its frame.

A dark, receding alcove lay beyond, and a musty smell exhaled from the blackness. Rob leaned in, and rummaged. ‘Jesus. It’s dark, it’s too dark…I can’t see…’

Christine took out her mobile phone, switched on the phonelight and flashed it into the hidden space, over Rob’s shoulder.

Rob and Forrester stared; Dooley swore; Christine put a shocked hand to her mouth.

Right at the back of the alcove, swathed in cobwebs and grey dust, was a large and very battered leather box.