Chapter 8
“Why we jist sittin’ here?” asked Tom when Sebastian returned to the curricle, gathered his reins, and then sat staring silently at the worn cobbles of the lane before them.
“I’m trying to recall if I number amongst my acquaintances any antiquarians with a particular interest in Celtic history.”
“Any whats?”
“Celtic historians. Alas, I fear the answer is no. But,” said Sebastian with a smile as he gave his horses the office to start, “hopefully Lady Devlin has finished her interviews by now, because I have confidence she knows at least one, if not more.”
The antiquarian of Hero’s acquaintance was a solidly built man of perhaps fifty named Mr. Erasmus Inkberry.
He had a balding head shaped like a cannonball, an outthrust heavy jaw, and a thick neck that made him look more like a bricklayer or lumper than the scholar he was.
The son of a Yorkshire vicar, he had at one time reluctantly taken orders himself.
But a fortuitous bequest from a benevolent uncle had allowed him to leave the church and devote himself entirely to study.
Hero had known Inkberry for nearly ten years and had tremendous respect for both his knowledge and his reasoning abilities.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice,” she said when the scholar’s pleasant, middle-aged housekeeper showed her and Sebastian into the jumbled, overstuffed room that served as the antiquarian’s combination parlor and study. “And our apologies for intruding upon you on a Sunday.”
Inkberry waved one big, strong hand through the air in a dismissive gesture.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you at any time, my dear Miss Jar—I mean, Lady Devlin.
And you as well, my lord. Unfortunately,” he added as they settled in the worn chairs drawn up to the room’s small fire, “after reading this morning’s papers, I can guess only too well why you’re here.
The editors have outdone themselves with a stream of ridiculous nonsense linking this tragic death on Primrose Hill to the ancient Druids.
” He sighed. “Julius Caesar has a great deal to answer for.”
“But he wasn’t the only one who wrote about the Celts burning human sacrifices, was he?” said Sebastian.
“No.” Inkberry cast a quick, significant glance at Hero, then tweaked the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before saying, “Of course, there is growing evidence that those we know who wrote about the subject—from Strabo and Diodorus Siculus to Caesar himself—used Posidonius as their source. And one should never place too much faith in anything he said, wouldn’t you agree?
” Inkberry leaned forward in his chair. “The unfortunate truth is, we don’t actually know all that much about the Celts in general or the Druids in particular.
It seems likely they believed in an ‘otherworld’ to which I suppose what we would call their ‘souls’ traveled after death and from which they were reborn again and again.
But beyond that, most of their beliefs or even the nature of the Druids’ role in their society has been lost in the mists of time.
They didn’t write anything down, you see. ”
“They were illiterate?”
“Oh, no; we have Celtic inscriptions on memorial stones and such. But they had a religious prohibition against committing their knowledge to writing; everything had to be passed down orally. It was said to have taken twenty years for a young man or woman to become a Druid—truly a most astonishing feat of memory, wouldn’t you say?
But as a result, virtually everything we know about them comes from the accounts left by their enemies—mainly the Romans who fought against them or the Christian monks who came later and were nearly as dedicated as the Romans to wiping out the old Celtic beliefs and traditions. ”
“So what do we know for certain?” said Hero.
“Basically only what can be gleaned from a careful reading of the surviving Celtic legends and myths, and by analysis of the few ancient traditions that have somehow managed to persist on down through the ages, particularly in places like Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and Brittany. Those were the only outposts of the Celts to survive the Roman Empire largely intact, and even they were eventually overwhelmed in the Dark Ages by Rome’s Christianity. ”
“But we do know that the Druids were their priests?”
Inkberry cleared his throat. “Actually, as far as we can tell, the Druids were more like what we might call the intellectual class of the ancient Celts. Have you been to India?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Hero.
“Dreadfully unhealthy place, I’m afraid.
But fascinating, nonetheless, particularly for those interested in the Celts.
It appears to me that the Celts and the people who settled in northern India might have had a common origin; recent linguistic analysis in particular seems to support that theory, you know.
And from what I can tell, the Druids played essentially the same role in ancient Celtic society as the Brahmins do in today’s Hindu culture.
They were the poets, the historians, musicians, physicians, and astronomers of their day—and advisers to the kings, of course. ”
“But they were also the priests?” said Sebastian.
Inkberry shifted uncomfortably in his seat and threw another significant glance toward Hero. “Well, yes; so it would seem.”
“And what role did Primrose Hill play in all this?” said Hero.
“Absolutely nothing, as far as I can tell. The current fascination with the place can be traced directly to Iolo Morganwg.”
“Who?” said Sebastian.
Inkberry gave a rude snort. “That’s what he calls himself—Iolo of Glamorgan.
He’s a Welsh antiquarian who was born as plain Mr. Edward Williams, but he uses Morganwg as a pseudonym, and he’s managed to make himself the generally acknowledged authority on ancient Welsh literature.
The problem is, he’s lately taken to publishing collections of previously unknown poems and manuscripts he claims to have discovered.
Except he refuses to let anyone see the originals.
And frankly, after studying the texts he’s produced, I’ve come to the conclusion the ‘originals’ don’t exist; they’re forgeries, more likely than not fabricated by Mr. Williams himself.
Unfortunately, I am virtually alone in that opinion.
And it is based on those supposed new ‘discoveries’ that he has come up with, which he claims are ‘authentic’ ancient Druidic rituals. ”
“Those are the rituals his followers now enact on Primrose Hill on Midsummer’s Eve and Samhain?” said Hero.
Inkberry nodded. “There and other places. If you ask me, these ‘rituals’ are nothing more than a fantasy mishmash of Christian traditions blended with Arthurian legend and a dash of some rather strange dreams I suspect have their origins in hefty doses of laudanum. Yet he’s managed to convince a startling number of people of their authenticity. ”
“He’s based here in London?”
“Not exactly. He is here off and on, although he’s currently spending the winter in Wales.” Inkberry pulled a face. “If only he would stay there.”
“I assume he doesn’t write much about human sacrifices or the wicker man, does he?” said Sebastian.
“Good heavens, no. I doubt many people would find that appealing. Or at least, I hope not.” Inkberry gave a forced laugh but sobered quickly.
“I was not myself acquainted with the young man who was killed on Primrose Hill, although I did once have an unfortunate encounter with him up in Clerkenwell when I chanced to stop at a small coffeehouse just as he and some of his friends were arguing with the owner about something. The owner is a former militiaman, I’m told, and when he refused to take their abuse, they vented their anger by wrecking the poor fellow’s place.
It was a truly shocking display of wanton destruction, and yet, because of their exalted birth, I’m told none of them were ever held to account.
Not to say,” he added hastily, “that anyone deserved the dreadful fate that befell that young man on Primrose Hill.”
Sebastian drew the wooden carving from his pocket and held it out. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“Interesting,” said Inkberry, his heavy gray brows drawing together in a frown as he took the wolf from Sebastian’s hand. “Wherever did it come from?”
“It was found on Primrose Hill. Last night.”
Inkberry looked up, his frown deepening. “You think it might have something to do with that young man’s death?”
“It might. Or it could simply have been dropped by one of the participants in the Samhain celebration held there a few weeks ago.”
Inkberry ran his thumb over the knotted design inscribed on the wolf’s flank.
“It reminds me of an ancient relief carving found some years ago at the Hill of Tara, in Ireland. Obviously, this itself is not an historic piece; most likely something inspired by that carving—or one like it—and recently produced.” Features pinched, he handed the wolf back to Sebastian.
“Surely you don’t think the papers are correct, do you?
That what happened to that young man has something to do with the neo-Celtic ceremonies held on the hill? ”
But all Sebastian could do was tell him basically the same thing he’d said to Gibson. “I hope not.”
“I think,” said Hero a short time later as Sebastian settled beside her in their waiting carriage, “that it might be worthwhile for you to return, alone, for a more open, frank discussion with Mr. Inkberry on the subject of human sacrifice. I had the distinct impression he was deliberately avoiding the topic in a misplaced chivalrous attempt to spare what he imagines must be my delicate female sensibilities.”
“One would think he’d know better,” said Sebastian, signaling their coachman.
She rearranged the skirts of her moss green gown as the carriage started forward with a gentle jerk. “It never ceases to amaze me how otherwise intelligent, reasonable men can have such faulty, antiquated notions about the true nature of fully one half the human race.”
“Well, Inkberry never has been married, has he?”
Hero looked over at him in surprise, then drew a quick breath and went off in a peal of laughter.