Tom All-Alone's by Lynn Shepherd Page A

one, he keeps it as private as his opinions on every other matter of note), this is a role Mr Tulkinghorn would have appreciated, and one in which he is, in his own field, unsurpassed.
    When he gets to his feet a moment later, Charles is intrigued but not unduly surprised to observe that Tulkinghorn has nointention of discussing the letters with him any further; he seems, indeed, solely concerned to show him off the premises with all dispatch. But when they reach the door of the chamber, he appears to change his mind, and turns to Charles with what passes, with him, for a smile.
    â€˜Perhaps it would interest you to see my little collection? The top of the house is let off now in sets of chambers, but I still keep the lower floors, where the coolness of the temperature and the dryness of the atmosphere are ideally suited for my purpose.’
    It could hardly be more contrary to what Charles was expecting, but nonetheless he accepts with alacrity. Tulkinghorn leads him down towards the ground floor, but stops on the half-landing by a door that is so cleverly concealed by the veins and swirls of faked marbled paintwork you could pass it by nine times out of ten and never even notice. He lights a candle and the two of them make their way down a spiral stone staircase to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion. The stairs are dark, and the candle throws the lawyer’s enormous, quivering shadow against the curve of the wall. But strange though it seems, the air brightens as they descend, and when they reach the foot of the staircase, Charles sees why. He’s in a small hexagonal chamber that opens into another, much larger room, lit from above by a huge conical dome of yellow glass with a stone rose in its centre. They must be at least two floors below ground, but the room ahead of him is double-height, with a catacomb of corridors opening away from him in all directions. The architecture is astounding, but even that retreats into insignificance compared with what it holds. It is like some augmentum ad absurdum of Charles’ own former lodgings – objects stud every surface, every wall, every shelf, as well as every passage and alcove within view. It is, quite simply,the largest and most extraordinary collection of classical statuary Charles has ever seen. Not even his beloved British Museum can rival this. Stone, marble, terracotta, alabaster – every texture, every colour from pearly ivory to a rich polished black. Funerary urns and a statue of Apollo, horn-eared gods and a snake-haired Medusa, busts of ancient emperors and fragments of vase, heads in profile, heads in relief, tiny broken details mounted on plaques, and perfectly intact slabs of huge architectural frieze. Tulkinghorn eyes his visitor with a quiet but obvious satisfaction.
    â€˜Most of the best Greek and Roman sculpture is in here,’ he says, as if casually, ‘but I think Egypt is your own preference?’
    Charles has no preference of the kind, but he has no objection to seeing what else his host is prepared to show him. Tulkinghon leads him towards the dome, and he sees now that this space is not a room at all, but a gallery round another, lower chamber that opens now beneath him, half-plunged in darkness, and dominated by a huge stone trough, throned on pillars and deeply carved with symbols and runes. No – not runes, thinks Charles, leaning over the balustrade as his eyes adjust to the light. Not runes but hieroglyphs , and it’s not a trough but a sarcophagus – an enormous, perfectly preserved Egyptian sarcophagus. He starts and turns to Tulkinghorn, remembering suddenly where he has seen this before.
    â€˜But this is—’
    â€˜The sarcophagus of Pharaoh Seti I. Indeed.’
    â€˜But you said—’
    â€˜That I was given the amulet. That is quite true, but we are speaking of two distinct occasions. The sarcophagus had to be paid for.’
    â€˜May I go down?’
    â€˜Of course.