Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [3]
I looked into the bottom of the box, hoping for something else that had actual cash value – a cheque (though it would probably bounce) or some trinket stolen from a museum, such as a diamond necklace (though it would undoubtedly be a fake). There was something else in the box – a single sheet of paper. Printed on it, in the same hand as the address on the package, were two words. And these were they: WIELANDIA FABRICA.
I sat staring at the paper for so long that Caesar thought I had passed out and began nervously licking my feet to restore me to consciousness. The only thing that will distract Caesar from this activity, which he enjoys for its own sake, is a bone. I went and got him one, blundering into doorframes and furniture because my eyes were glued to that exasperating message.
I knew what it meant, of course. In case you don’t, I will tell you, because it isn’t fair to plant clues based on esoteric knowledge. The explicit translation of the phrase should be obvious to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of Latin – ‘Wayland’s work.’ But, you ask, who was Wayland?
I first encountered him as Wayland the Smith, in Puck of Pook’s Hill, when he forged a dark grey sword with Runes of Prophecy on the blade – a sword that sang when it was pulled from the scabbard. Kipling knew his legendry; he was aware that Wayland had come down in the world since he entered England as a heathen god whose altars reeked with blood and burning. The Norse sagas tell his history; he was a divine smith, like the Roman Vulcan, and, like Vulcan, crippled by malice. When writers wanted to describe a particularly fine piece of craftsmanship they had only to label it WELANDES WEORC. Centuries later, Latin epics were using the same phrase. Wayland’s enchanted blades had powers beyond those of mortal steel, and his hilts were of gold, gem-encrusted.
Scandinavia, fabled goldsmith, jewel thief . . . It made an odorous little syllogism, as neat and as crazy as one of Lewis Carroll’s exercises in logic. John was on the track of a Viking treasure. Or rather, that is what John wanted me to believe. I didn’t believe it. If he really intended to commit grand theft, I was the last person to whom he would broadcast his intentions. The message was just a lure, a juicy chunk of bait – and a fairly ingenious one. My interest was definitely aroused.
I checked the travel folder again. The plane ticket was one-way, the cheapest tourist class. The hotel room had not been paid for in advance, only confirmed. Now I knew I was going to Stockholm, if only for the pleasure of telling that skinflint what I thought of him and his cut-rate romantic gestures.
Schmidt protested volubly when I told him I was taking my vacation. He didn’t object to the short notice, like any normal boss. The thing that bothered him was that he would miss his weekly instalment of the dirty book I was writing. I had been working on the damned thing for three years. It began as a semi-serious attempt to make some money, but it had become a joke; the manuscript already filled two big cartons, and no end was in sight. I could have wound it up at any point; one merely needs to decide how many times the heroine has to be abducted and assaulted before satiety sets in. But Schmidt was hopelessly hooked on Rosanna’s adventures. I kept feeding him chapters like Scheherazade with the sultan.
‘But she is hiding in the broom closet while the Huns search the house,’ he exclaimed. ‘How will she escape? Did not Attila remark, at the end of chapter four hundred and twenty, “We have not looked in the broom closet”? This time, surely . . .’
‘She won’t be raped,’ I said. ‘It’s against