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He told me how much it was going to cost. I thought this over for a moment or two before I reluctantly nodded. We discussed where and when we would meet.
This had better all be worth it, Dad, I thought.
The bag Freddie gave me was surprisingly light. I could not bring myself to inspect its contents. “What is it?” I asked him.
“Cat,” he said.
“A dead cat?”
“It bloody well should be—it’s been on ice in the vet school for the past month.”
It was a three-minute walk from the Round Church to our destination. When we reached it, Freddie took the steps two at a time ahead of me, unlocking the front door with an almost comically large barrel key on a great jangling ring of them, and inviting me inside.
“Time for a quick drink before we start, if you want one.”
I nodded and followed him down the corridor.
One of a terrace of brick-fronted Victorian houses in central Cambridge, the Osiris clubhouse was distinguished from the outside only by a small brass plaque. Inside, things got weirder. Freddie led me through to a living room with a battered Chesterfield sofa and a few threadbare club chairs. Vibes-wise, it was reminiscent of the sixth-form bar at a boarding school, the major difference being that in a glass case in the corner was a mummy—a shabby, haunted-looking thing, its wrappings brown and crumbling. I decided not to think too much about the fact that it had once been an actual person.
Freddie opened a drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, poured two glasses, and sank his in one. I did the same, regretting it as soon as it hit my already uneasy stomach.
“Coats through here,” he said, leading me to a small cloakroom with a little loo next to it. Freddie ducked in to the loo first, to straighten his tie, as he put it. “Little sharpener on the corner of the sink for you,” he told me with a wink, on his way out.
For almost as long as I had known him, Freddie had been the go-to guy when anybody wanted drugs. At school it was hash and weed. Now it was pills, speed, and coke, with Freddie disappearing every so often off to London or Bristol for supplies.
“It’s almost time, Lambert,” he announced when I reappeared, gesturing toward the stairs.
On the first floor of the building, things got a little more glamorous. The curving staircase was lined with paintings of former Osiris presidents all the way back to Cyril himself. I spotted Harry’s father, Philip, about halfway up. At the top, there was a long corridor of dark wood paneling, hung with brass sconces and old framed lithographs (a prospect of Alexandria, a view of one of the temples at Karnak).
Off the corridor was a series of doors.
“Take a look around,” Freddie said. “I’m going to check if they’re ready for you.”
My father’s son at heart, I couldn’t help having a snoop. The first door I tried was locked. The second opened into a room lined with glass cases, each containing pots, jars, wooden carvings of ships and animals, fragments of painted plaster that looked to have been chipped off the walls of tombs. There was a stone sarcophagus in one corner. My God, I thought. If this was the sort of stuff that Cyril had filled Longhurst with, it was no wonder Juliette was interested in Sphinxes. It must have been like growing up in the British Museum.
Freddie was waiting for me when I emerged into the corridor. “They’re ready for you,” he said. “Don’t forget your bag.”
When I entered the dining room, everyone was already seated. I spotted Harry, Freddie, Arno, Benjy, Eric, Hugo. Others I knew too but less well: Douglas Burn, Toby Gough. The only light was coming from silver candelabras placed at intervals down the length of the dining table. Freddie took his place at one end, and, still holding my bag, I sat at the head. All of us were in white tie—mine inherited from my father (tight across the shoulders, short in the leg). No one spoke. No one made eye contact. I don’t think I had ever seen any of them looking as stern or serious as they did now. What the hell have I let myself in for? I wondered, with alarm.
I was beginning to think that line of coke downstairs might have been a mistake too.
In front of me was a cone of incense, spewing smoke into the air, and an enameled silver platter. Next to the platter was a leather-bound notebook. Leaning forward, feeling very conscious of being the person in the room that everyone was looking at, I picked up the notebook and opened it. My heart sank. “This is all in Greek,” I said.
“Ancient Egyptian, actually,” said Harry. “Transcribed phonetically into Greek, by my great-uncle Cyril.”
“You must remember some of your Greek from school, Lambert, a clever scholarship boy like you,” Freddie added with a snicker.
Ga ba ka, baba ka, I silently read to myself. Ka ka ra ra phee ko ko.
“What about this?” I asked, pointing to the bag.
“Take it out and put it on the platter,” Freddie instructed me.
I reached inside my bag and gingerly pulled out a small, damp ball of fur. A kitten, dark and soft, eyes closed, cold. I swallowed the urge to retch and gently placed it on the platter, silently apologizing to it for whatever I was about to do.
“And I’m supposed to read all of this?” I said, lifting up the notebook.
Nobody answered.