Smith glanced at the shadowed face of the writer. “But the money you earned must have helped compensate you for the social discomfort.”
“Money? What money? I didn’t earn a penny from the story. I wrote it as part of my salaried duties for the newspaper. The newspaper owner collected all the royalties and reprint fees, and kept them for himself without so much as a thank-you flung in my direction. There was no money, lieutenant. Not for me. Merely national contempt.”
“So you discount that the churchmen might have been right? That there’s no supernatural element entering into the equation?”
“As I wrote a little while later: ‘Here indeed we have the maggot writhing in the midst of corrupted offal denying the existence of the sun.’ I’m not saying that there was never a supernormal intervention during that war, or this one. Only that I have no evidence one way or the other. And ‘The Bowmen’ is certainly not evidence of such divine intervention. It is a story, a story, a story. Fiction and nothing more.”
The old man awarded the younger one that searching glance again. “But you, Lieutenant Smith, would take the contrary point of view. After all, you say you believe you saw the events of my story take place in reality.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Then let us prove to ourselves that ‘The Bowmen’ story exists in the real world. Ah! At least the archive hasn’t been blasted to smithereens. If you step through that gateway to your right…”
Smith passed through a gate set in a brick wall. Just along the road he could make out the imposing bulk of the British Museum. Searchlights still probed the clouds’ underbelly. A smell of burning persisted in the air, but here at least the city had fallen silent.
Machen said, “Take care. It’s very dark in this yard. Do you think it would be safe for me to smoke my pipe now… ahm, best not. The rules against naked lights at night are very strict. Now… where is it?”
“Can I help?”
“I’m trying to find the bell push. Good Lord, it’s so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face… ah, this is it. No, no…” He chuckled. “I’m trying to push my finger into a satyr’s eye. I should add, a carved one. If you could see this old door frame you’d see how intricately carved it is. Ah, this is it.”
Smith heard a bell sound faintly inside the building, and after a long pause a muffled, disgruntled voice came through the carved door hidden in the darkness.
“The archive is closed. Opening hours are nine till five. Goodnight.”
“Benjamin, it’s me. Machen.”
“Arthur? Why didn’t you say?”
“I just did, Benjamin.” Machen’s tone was good-natured. “Aren’t you going to let us enter your fortress?”
“Of course, of course.” There came the sound of bolts being drawn, a key turned, and the darkness changed shade. “Careful how you go, Arthur. I can’t switch on the light until I’ve closed the door behind you. Blackout regulations, you know.”
“Of course, Benjamin. Ah, I have a friend along, too. We’re on something of a quest.”
“Splendid! In you come, then. Ah, terrible tonight. I heard there were two hundred bombers in the formation.”
“Terrible indeed, Benjamin. They won’t rest until they have us living in the sewers.”
Smith walked into an echoing hallway and the door clunked shut behind him. There was another click and a dazzling light lit up the surroundings. Standing close by was an elderly man, stooped and disturbingly frail. Smith noted that he wore an exotic cricket blazer, trimmed with pale blue at the cuffs and collar, a team badge adorning the breast pocket.
“Now, what can I do you for, Arthur?” Despite his frailty the old man sounded cheerful. Evidently he was delighted to see Machen. “You’ve not been this way in a long while.”
“No, I’m stranded out at the end of the line in Amersham. I haven’t been up to town for months. However, I’ve come now to raid your archive, if I may?”
“Of course, of course. How’s the family?”
“Purefoy relentlessly knits socks for sailors, while Janet is training to become a nurse… she’s my daughter, you know?”
“Yes, I remember. And your son?”
“Hilary. He was captured by the Italians. They’ve had him picking grapes in Tuscany.”
“Too bad. I’m sorry, Arthur.”
“At least he’s out of harm’s way, but I dare say he wishes he was back in the thick of it again. We’ve had letters so we know he’s in good health.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Well, you know the way. I’ll scuttle back to the office. I’m ordered to remain by the phone in case anyone in editorial needs back issues from way back when. They never do, of course. So I sit, drink tea, wait.”
After the old man had wandered off into the labyrinth, Machen led Smith to a long room filled with filing cabinets.
“This is the manuscript room,” Machen told him. “We should find what we’re looking for here.” He consulted a leather-bound ledger filled with page after page of entries. “I’ve known Benjamin since 1910… or was it 1909?”