Gormley couldn’t suppress a chuckle. ‘So he’s sexually precocious too, is he?’
‘Actually, I think he is. Anyway, I’ve worked with him quite a bit on the novel, too: that is, I’ve arranged it into chapters for him and generally tidied it up. Nothing wrong with Keogh’s history or his use of the seventeenth-century language – in fact it’s amazingly accurate – but his spelling is still atrocious and on this book at least he was repetitive and disjointed. But one thing I can promise you: it will earn him an awful lot of money!’
Now Gormley frowned. ‘How can his short stories be “jewels” while his novel is repetitive and disjointed Does that follow logically?’
‘Nothing follows logically in Keogh’s case. The reason the novel differs from the shorter works is simple: his collaborator on the shorts was a literary type who knew what he was doing, whereas his collaborator for the novel was quite simply … a seventeenth-century rake!’
‘Eh?’ Gormley was startled. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do. I wish to God I didn’t! Listen: there was a very successful writer of short stories who lived and died in Hartlepool thirty years ago. His real name doesn’t matter but he had three or four pseudonyms. Keogh uses pseudonyms very close to the originals.’
‘The “originals”? I still don’t -‘
‘As for the seventeenth-century rake: he was the son of an earl. Very notorious in these parts between 1660 and 1672. Finally an outraged husband shot him dead. He wasn’t a writer, but he did have a vivid imagination! These two men . . . they are Keogh’s collaborators!’
Gormley’s scalp was crawling now. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I’ve talked to Keogh’s girlfriend,’ Harmon continued. ‘She’s a nice kid and dotes on him. And she won’t hear a word against him. But in conversation she let it slip that he has this idea about something called a necroscope. It’s something he presented to her as fiction, a figment of his own imagination. A necroscope, he told her, is someone -‘
‘ – who can look in on the thoughts of the dead?’ Gormley cut in.
‘Yes,’ the other sighed his relief. ‘Exactly.’
‘A spirit medium?’
‘What? Why, yes, I suppose you could say that. But a real one, Keenan! A man who genuinely talks to the
dead! I mean, it’s monstrous! I’ve actually seen him sitting there, writing – in the local graveyard!’
‘Have you told anyone else?’ Gormley’s voice was sharp now. ‘Does Keogh know what you suspect?’
‘No.’
‘Then don’t breathe another word about this to a soul. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but -‘
‘No buts, Jack. This discovery of yours might be very important indeed, and I’m delighted you got in touch with me. But it must go no farther. There are people who could use it in entirely the wrong way.’
‘You believe me, then, about this terrible thing?’ the other’s relief was plain. *I mean, is it even possible?’
‘Possible, impossible – the longer I live the more I wonder just what might or mightn’t be! Anyway, I can understand your concern, and it’s right that you should be concerned. But as for this being “a terrible thing”: I’m afraid I have to reserve my judgement on that. If you are correct, then this Harry Keogh of yours has a terrific talent. Just think how he might use it!’
‘I shudder to think!’
‘What? And you a headmaster? Shame on you, Jack!’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I – ‘
‘But wouldn’t you yourself like the chance to talk to the greatest teachers, theorists and scientists of all time? To Einstein, Newton, Da Vinci, Aristotle?’
‘My God!’ the voice at the other end of the line almost choked. ‘But surely that would be -I mean, quite literally – utterly impossible!’
‘Yes, well you just keep believing that, Jack, and forget all about this conversation of ours, right?’
‘But you -‘
‘Right, Jack?’
‘Very well. What do you intend to – ?’
‘Jack, I work for a very queer outfit, a very funny crowd. And even telling you that much is to tell you too much. However, you have my word that I’ll look into this thing. And I want your word that this is your last word on it to anyone.’