The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

“Guilty,” Luka said, smiling shyly.

I savoured the biscuits, sipping coffee between long drags of the cigarette Luka had given me. It was aromatic, almost clove-like in the taste. I’d not noticed the packet, but I liked them. What he’d told me gave me food for thought. Could it be true? Could some people be human computational devices, forced to cut out the external world while they processed information, which made them lose consciousness and have a fit? It made a lot of sense, when he’d explained it the way he had, but I still found it hard to swallow.

“You said you might be able to help?”

“Yes, Clyde. You said you’d keep an open mind. Tell me, has anyone touched our statue of Saint Sarah with their bare hands since she was sent to you?”

I thought carefully for a moment. We hadn’t touched the figurine here. We’d been fastidious in our examination, and when it had gone for fingerprints, the technicians would have worn gloves.

“I think not. Why?”

“Well, if you’d allow me to hold her, I might be able to tell you something about ‘Green Eyes’, the man who stole it. And now, as he’s your obvious choice as the murderer, what I learn might be important.”

I think my expression must have been one of supreme astonishment combined with something like “what the hell have you been taking”, because he chuckled.

“Clyde,” he said, leaning across the desk and taking my hand. “I think it’s time you opened the envelope I gave to Harry for you.”

“I thought you said it’s for when I start to believe you?”

“I think your expression just told me that you’re ready to start that journey.”

*****

Billy was with a client when I arrived at his office, unannounced, just before lunch.

His secretary looked up and then startled, asked whether there was a scheduled meeting of our Legacy programme she’d overlooked. I asked whether I might wait in the visitor’s room until Billy was free, as I was feeling very shaken up.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Smith?”

I declined her kind offer and sat in an armchair in the corner, jiggling my leg while I re-read the first page of Luka’s letter to me:

Dear Clyde

I often don’t tell people everything I see in my visions for fear they’ll take fright and cut me out of their lives. It’s happened more times than I can tell you. People get scared, rather than spend time thinking about what I’ve seen.

I’ve drawn images, rather than write words. There are four in all.

I have absolutely no idea what they mean, only you will know. All I can tell you is the first one and the last one are to do with one person, and the middle two refer to the man I mentioned at the baths on Boxing Day I spoke about. The tall, dark-haired man who couldn’t stop looking at you.

I hope you’ll still be my friend once you’ve worked out what my images mean. I genuinely think we could become mates, and I’d like it.

Luka Praz.

“Sorry, Clyde, I—”

I bounded from where I was sitting when Billy came into the room. “Please, close the door, Billy,” I said.

“What on earth’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Tell me, Billy. Please, don’t piss about, just tell me something. All right?”

“Of course, anything. You sure you don’t want a drink? I’ve got some scotch in my office—”

“No, no. It’s this tiepin.” I took it from my pocket and held it out to him. “You have one just like it. Where did you get them?”

“I had them made, Clyde. You remember, I told you I had them both made after I shipped back here in August 1941, before I returned to Africa to work alongside the Brits. I knew you’d gone missing and I had the pair made. I promised myself I’d carry yours with me and give it to you when we were home safe and the war was over.”

“Yes, yes, Billy, I know that. But where did you get them?”

“I had them made at Angus and Coote in George Street.”

“You said you had them made?”

“Yes, they weren’t off the shelf. It was a bespoke job.”

“Made? Made from what?”

He searched my eyes before answering. “I didn’t want to ever tell you, Clyde.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That’s no answer.”

“I knew how fond you were of him and—”

“Fond of who?” I nearly shouted.

“Johnny. Johnny Edgar, Clyde. They gave me his belongings to take home. As he had no family, I had the tiepins made from the gold outer case of his cigarette lighter. Clyde! Clyde!”

I felt the room spinning and my knees gave way. Billy caught me around the waist and called out for his secretary, telling her to bring his bottle of scotch.

I didn’t know why I wanted to cry, because deep down inside I was filled with cold, hard fear and shock, not sadness. It took me an age to be able to speak. Instead, I thrust the pages of Luka’s letter into Billy’s hand.

“What’s this, Clyde? Come on, mate. Please talk to me.”

“That man you asked about on the phone? The one you said you didn’t get to meet? His name’s Luka Praz, and that’s what he wrote and drew for me, two days before he’d even seen you. He’s a medium. No, that’s not right. He’s a psychometrist. He can tell things by holding them or touching them. He asked for the tiepin you gave me and he fell down in a fit. What he saw in his vision is what he’s drawn on the pages of the letter.”

“Clyde, a psychometrist?”

“Billy, how long have you known me? Have I ever been given to histrionics? I wouldn’t be here if there was stuff in there that only you and I could possibly know. He indicates in his letter there are things that relate to you. Things I don’t understand myself.”

Johnny Edgar, the only member of “No Holes Barred” that didn’t make it home. It was Johnny I’d had a