The Unnatural Inquirer

“This is John Taylor, to see the Cardinal. Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your door right off its hinges.”

“This establishment is protected,” said a calm, cultured voice. “Even from people like the infamous John Taylor. Now go away, or I’ll set the hell-hounds on you.”

“We need to talk, Cardinal.”

“Convince me.”

“I’ve just been with the Collector,” I said. “Discussing the missing Afterlife Recording. He didn’t have it. Now either you agree to talk to me, or I’ll tell him you’ve got it and exactly where to find you. And you know how much he’s always wanted to make your collection part of his own.”

“Bully,” the voice said dispassionately. “All right; I suppose you’d better come in. Bring the demon floozy with you.”

There was the sound of several locks and bolts disengaging, and then the door slowly swung open before us. I marched straight in, followed by Bettie. There might have been booby-traps, trap-doors, or all kinds of unpleasantness ahead, but in the Nightside you can’t ever afford to look weak. Confidence is everything. The door shut and locked itself behind us. Not entirely to my surprise, the interior of the shop wasn’t at all what its exterior had suggested. For one thing, the interior was a hell of a lot bigger. It’s a common enough spell in the Nightside, sticking a large space inside a small one, given that living and business space are both in such short supply. The problem lies with the spell, often laid down in a hurry by dodgy backstreet sorcerers, the kind who deal strictly in cash. All it takes is one mistake in the set-up, one mispronunciation of a vital word; and then the whole spell can collapse at any time without any warning. The interior expands suddenly to its full size, shouldering everything else out of the way…and they’ll be pulling body parts out of the rubble that used to be a street for days on end.

The shop’s interior stretched away before me, warmly lit and widely spacious, with gleaming wood-panelled walls, and a spotless floor. The huge barnlike structure was filled with miles and miles of open glass shelving and stands, showing off hundreds of weird and wonderful treasures. Bettie made excited Ooh! and Aah! noises, and I had to physically prevent her from picking things up to examine them. The Cardinal had said his place was protected, and I believed him. Because if it wasn’t seriously protected, the Collector would have cleaned him out by now.

The Cardinal came strolling down the brightly lit central aisle to greet us. A tall and well-proportioned man in his late forties, with a high-boned face, an easy smile, and a hint of mascara round the eyes. He was wearing skintight white slacks, a red shirt open to the navel to show off his shaven chest, and a patterned silk scarf gathered loosely round his neck. He carried a martini in one hand and didn’t offer the other to be shaken.

“Wow,” I said. “When the Church defrocked you, they went all the way, didn’t they?”

The Cardinal smiled easily. “The Church has never approved of those of my…inclination. Even though we are responsible for most of the glorious works of art adorning their greatest churches and cathedrals. They only put up with me for so long because I was useful, and a respected academic, and…discreet. None of which did me any good when I was found out, and accused…It’s not as if I took anything important, or significant. I simply wanted a few pretty things for my own. Ah, well; at least I don’t have to wear those awful robes any more. So drab, and so very draughty round the nether regions.”

“Excuse me,” said Bettie, “But why is your shop called The Pink Cockatoo? What has that got to do with…well, anything?”

The Cardinal’s smile widened. “My little joke. It’s called that because I’ve had a cockatoo in my time.”

Bettie got the giggles. I gave the Cardinal my best Let’s try and stick to the subject look.

“Come to take a look at my collection, have you?” he said, apparently unmoved by the look. He sipped delicately at his martini, one finger elegantly extended. “By all means. Knock yourself out.”

I wandered down the shelves, just to be polite. And because I was a bit curious. I kept Bettie close beside me and made sure she maintained a respectful distance from the exhibits at all times. I was sure that the Cardinal believed in You broke it, you paid for it. He wandered along behind us, being obviously patient. I recognised some of the things on the shelves, by reputation if not always by sight. The Cardinal had helpfully labelled them in neat copperplate handwriting. There was a copy of the Gospel According to Mary Magdalene. (With illustrations. And I was pretty sure which kind, too.) Pope Joan’s robes of office. The rope Judas Iscariot used to hang himself. Half a dozen large canvasses by acknowledged Masters, all unknown to modern art history, depicting frankly pornographic scenes from some of the seamier tales in the Old Testament. Probably private commissions, from aristocratic patrons of the time. A Satanic Bible, bound in black goat’s skin, with an inverted crucifix stamped in bas-relief on the front cover.

“Now that’s a very limited edition,” said the Cardinal, leaning in close to peer over my shoulder. “Belonged to Giles de Rais, the old monster himself, before he met the Maid of Orleans. There are only seventeen copies of that particular edition, in the goat’s skin.”

“Why seventeen?” said Bettie. “Bit of an arbitrary number, isn’t it?”

“I said that,” said the Cardinal. “When I inquired further, I was told that seventeen is the most you can get out of one goat’s skin. Makes you wonder whether the last copy had a big floppy ear hanging off the back cover…And I hate to think what they used for the spine. Ah, Mr. Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my dice. I’m rather proud of those. The very dice the Roman soldiers used as they gambled for the Christ’s clothes, while he was still on the cross.”

“Do they have any…special properties?” I said, moving in close for a better look. They seemed very ordinary, two small wooden cubes, with any colour and all the dots worn away long ago.

“No,” said the Cardinal. “They’re just dice. Their value, which is incredible, lies in their history.”

“And what’s this?” said Bettie, wrinkling her nose as she studied a single, small, very old and apparently very ordinary fish, enclosed in a clear Lucite block.

“Ah, that,” said the Cardinal. “The only surviving example of the fish used to feed the five thousand…You wouldn’t believe how much money, political positions, and even sexual favours I’ve been offered, by certain extreme epicures, just for a taste…The philistines.”

“What brought you here, to the Nightside, Cardinal?” said Bettie, doing her best to sound pleasant and casual and not at all like a reporter. The Cardinal wasn’t fooled, but he smiled indulgently, and she hurried on. “And why collect only Christian artifacts? Are you still a believer, even after everything the Church has done to you?”

“Of course,” said the Cardinal. “The Catholic Church is not unlike the Mafia, in some ways—once in, never out. And as for the Nightside—why this is Hell, nor am I out of it. Ah, the old jokes are still the best. I damned myself to this appalling haven for the morally intransigent through the sin of greed, of acquisition. I was tempted, and I fell. Sometimes it feels like I’m still falling…but I have my collection to comfort me.” He drained the last of his martini, smacked his lips, put the glass down carefully next to a miniature golden calf, and looked at me steadily. “Why are you here, Mr. Taylor? What do you want with me? You must know I can’t trust you. Not after you worked for the Vatican, finding the Unholy Grail for them.”

“I worked for a particular individual,” I said carefully. “Not the Vatican, as such.”

“You really did find it, didn’t you?” said the Cardinal, looking at me almost wistfully. I could all but sense his collector’s fingers twitching. “The Sombre Cup…What was it like?”