He paused. The burning wicks spluttered and crackled. The air was thick with cloying smoke that was irritating his throat and he coughed again. The mirror was still impenetrably black. He coughed again, then finished reading the rest of the words. When he was done he closed the book and clasped it to his chest. He stared at the mirror, blinking away tears. At first there was nothing, just blackness, but then something moved. ‘Lucy?’ said Nightingale. ‘Lucy Clarke.’
A grey shadow was swirling in the mirror, gradually taking on human form.
‘I am here to talk to Lucy Clarke.’
‘Who are you?’ It was a woman’s voice, Trembling. Uncertain. Scared.
‘Is that Lucy? Lucy Clarke?’ The shadow continued to coalesce. ‘This is a safe place, Lucy. The light of God surrounds us. The love of God enfolds us. The power of God protects us. The presence of God watches over us. Wherever we are, God is.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the voice, stronger this time.
‘My name is Jack. Is that Lucy?’
‘Where am I?’
Nightingale bit down on his lower lip, not sure how to answer that question. The mirror was in the basement of Gosling Manor, but he really had no idea where Lucy was.
‘Lucy, I was on the platform where you died.’
‘You tried to stop me.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes,’ said Nightingale.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent you from jumping.’
‘So am I.’ The figure was clearer now. It was the woman he had seen throw herself under the train, but now she was wearing a simple white robe.
‘Lucy, what happened? Why did you kill yourself?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, She lowered her head and her hair swung across her face.
‘You don’t have to apologise,’ said Nightingale. ‘But can you tell me why you did it?’
‘I had to.’
‘Why?’
She kept her head down. ‘He told me to.’
‘Who? Who told you?’
She mumbled and Nightingale couldn’t make out what she’d said.
‘I can’t hear you, Lucy.’
She looked up and for the first time he saw her eyes. They were brimming with tears. ‘The Whisper Man,’ she said.
‘Who? What did you say?’
‘The Whisper Man,’ she repeated. ‘He said he had something to tell me and he whispered to me and then I wanted to….’ She shuddered and lowered her head again.
‘What’s his name, this man?’
She sniffed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How did you meet him?’
Another sniff. ‘He sat next to me at a bar. He started talking to me and then he whispered and then I wanted to kill myself.’ She slowly raised her head and looked at him. ‘Can you help me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nightingale.
‘You have to tell my daughter that I’m sorry. And my husband. My ex-husband. Tell them I’m sorry.’
‘I can do that,’ he said.
‘Tell them I love them and tell them it was an accident.’
‘They know what happened, Lucy. They know what you did. The police will have told your husband.’
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. ‘He made me,’ she sniffed. ‘The Whisper Man made me.’
‘What did he look like, this man?’
‘I don’t know. He was just a man.’
‘Tall, short? Fat, thin? What sort of hair did he have?’
‘I don’t remember,’ she said, and sniffed again. ‘All I remember is him whispering to me.’
‘And what did he say, Lucy?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘You mean you couldn’t hear what he was saying?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘No. I remember listening and agreeing with him and feeling the words fill me up, but now, no, I don’t know what he said.’
‘Do you know why you killed yourself?’
She shook her head again. ‘I had to,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why but I know I had to.’
She peered over Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked. ‘Is there someone with you?’
‘My associate,’ he said. ‘Jenny. She’s a friend.’
‘I have to go,’ said Lucy, her voice trembling.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’ She started to back away from the mirror, disappearing into the shadows. ‘I just know I have to go. Remember to talk to my husband. Tell him I’m sorry.’
‘I will do,’ said Nightingale.
‘And my daughter. Charlie. Please tell Charlie that I love her. That I will always love her. And that I’m sorry I won’t be there to take care of her but that her dad is a good man and she’ll be okay with him.’
‘I will,’ said Nightingale.
‘Promise me,’ she said tearfully.
‘I promise,’ said Nightingale, but she had already gone.
CHAPTER 16
‘What do you think’s taking him so long?’ asked Jeremy, gesturing at the door to the kitchen. ‘I mean how long does a soufflé take?’
‘You know Andrew, he loves to watch things rise,’ said Simon, and he giggled.
Jeremy laughed and sipped his wine. ‘And what do we all think of the sea bream?’
‘Overcooked,’ said the third man at the table. His name was Johnnie and he was the youngest of the group, barely out of his teens. ‘One might even say flaccid.’
‘He does his best,’ said Jeremy. ‘But he’ll never be Cordon Bleu.’
‘I did like his pak choi,’ said Simon.
‘I do love Chinese,’ said Johnnie.
‘Don’t we all darling?’ said Jeremy, and they all laughed.
Jeremy sipped his wine, then called over at the kitchen door. ‘Andrew! Do you need help with the microwave?’
The other two men laughed. They waited but there was no reply. ‘Andrew!’ Jeremy called again. ‘Is everything all right in there?’
There was no response and Jeremy put down his glass. He stood up and went over to the kitchen door. ‘Andrew?’ he said, and knocked. He reached for the door handle, turned it slowly, and eased the door open. The moment that he opened the door, the smoke alarm burst into life and Jeremy leapt back. Johnnie and Simon laughed and Jeremy flashed them a rueful smile. He opened the door wide. Smoke was pouring out of the oven and he could smell the soufflé burning. He took a step into the room, his eyes watering, and that was when he saw Andrew, sitting at the kitchen table. There was a carving knife sticking into his left eye and his face was covered in blood. He was still sitting, his hands hanging lifelessly either side of his chair. Blood had pooled on the table and was dripping onto the tiled floor. Jeremy took a step back, his stomach heaved and he vomited over the door.
CHAPTER 17
Jenny didn’t say anything as she drove away from Gosling Manor. Nightingale sat with his arms folded and his head down, deep in thought. ‘Thanks,’ he said eventually.
‘For what?’
‘For everything, pretty much,’ he said. ‘For the lift, for working for me even though I know I can be a bit of an arsehole sometimes, for not asking me what the hell is going on.’
‘I like to think I’m working with you, rather than for you,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘There I go, being an arsehole again.’
‘It’s part of your charm,’ she said.
‘Really?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
She overtook a petrol tanker, smoothly and efficiently, and as always he was impressed with her skill behind the wheel. ‘So what the hell is going on, Jack?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘At the moment I’m winging it.’
‘These suicides, do you think they’re connected to the book?’
He looked at her. ‘Do you?’
‘Jack, I don’t know what to think. But I am worried about Mrs Dixon’s book. Your name is in it and so
is mine, and as Chalmers said, people in that book tend to die.’
‘It’s just a book.’
She pulled a face as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘You more than anyone know that things aren’t always what they seem. Professor Dixon had a bad feeling about that book and he’s dead. And the date next to my name was tomorrow, Jack.’
‘I don’t for one minute think a giant eagle is going to come and get you.’ He grinned. ‘And if it does, just stay indoors.’
‘You think this is a joke, do you?’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say, Jenny. Do you want me to stay with you tonight?’ He held up his hand when he saw the look of disdain flash across her face. ‘In a purely bodyguarding capacity,’ he said.
‘No, I’ve arranged to see an old friend at the Savoy, for drinks and dinner. Why don’t you come?’
‘I’ve actually got something to do. In Twickenham.’
‘Twickenham?’
‘Yeah. Do you mind dropping me there before you head off to the Savoy?’
‘What are you up to, Jack?’
‘I need to find Mrs Dixon. And to do that, I need something personal.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s how the crystal works. The crystal that Mrs Steadman gave me. She taught me how to use it to find people.’
Jenny frowned. ‘Why don’t you use the book? That belonged to her.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘The book had bad vibrations, she said. They’ll interfere. I need a photograph and ideally an item of clothing, something that she’s worn, or a piece of jewellery.’
‘So you’re going to break into her house and steal something? Jack, are you crazy?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘I think that ship has sailed,’ he said. ‘You yourself said the clock is ticking, we need to find the master book that Mrs Steadman talked about.’
‘So you do think we’re in danger? “It’s just a book” you said. Now you’ve changed your tune.’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ he said. ‘And if I do find her, maybe she’ll tell me that book is a load of nonsense. Either way, I need to find her. So can you take me to Twickenham?’
‘I’m not going to help you break into their house, Jack.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Just drop me outside and I’ll get an Uber when I’m finished.’
She sighed. ‘If you get caught, you’ll be in so much trouble.’
‘I’m a professional. I’ll be fine.’
‘A professional what? Because the last time I looked at your CV it didn’t have housebreaker on it.’
He laughed. ‘Now I know you’re not serious,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a CV.’ He patted his coat pocket. ‘But I did bring my housebreaking tools with me, so I’m good to go.’
He settled back in his seat as Jenny drove to Twickenham in silence. Jenny was right. He had downplayed the book, because he didn’t want her to worry. But according to Mrs Steadman the book was a very real threat and unless he did something there was every chance that they would end up the same way as Professor Dixon and the other unfortunates that had been listed.
They reached Twickenham and Jenny used her SatNav to find Larkrise in Beech Drive. She parked five houses away. ‘You’re sure about this?’ she said, looking at the house. It was a small detached mock Tudor building with an empty driveway and the lights were off.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘You go and enjoy your dinner.’
‘Come and join us when you’re done.’
‘Okay, I will.’
‘And if you do get caught, please don’t tell the police I drove you here.’
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Nightingale. He got out of the Audi, blew her a kiss, then walked to the house. He heard Jenny drive away as he walked around the side of the building. He stood against the back wall of the house, and considered his options. There were some large kitchen windows, a set of French windows, which presumably led to the sitting-room. Along the side of the house there was a frosted window, probably a downstairs toilet, and the back door, wood with some smaller frosted windows, and a Yale lock.
He chose the back door, and went to work with a glass-cutter on the pane nearest the lock. He made quick work of it, and made sure it fell into his gloved hands rather than onto the floor inside. He reached through the hole, turned the knob of the lock inside, and slowly pushed the door open. This was the time it could all go pear-shaped very quickly. If the Dixons had an alarm, and if the police had reset it after leaving, he’d need to be getting out before he got in. The last thing he needed was to give Chalmers the chance to pin a burglary charge on him.
His luck held.
There was enough light coming through the kitchen windows for him to find his way into the hallway and along to the sitting room. The thick blue curtains were drawn so he flicked the lights on. It looked as though the SOC officers had taken whatever they needed, and cleaned up after themselves. He moved towards the display units at the far side of the room, flanking the TV and home cinema unit. The books were mostly the coffee-table kind, so he assumed there’d be a study somewhere for the specialist stuff. He darted his eyes along the shelves until he found four volumes with no titles at all. He pulled one down and opened it. He smiled when he saw that it was a photo album. He selected what looked to be the most recent picture of Mrs Dixon, standing by a swimming pool under a cloudless blue sky. He slid the photograph into his pocket and headed upstairs. On the landing, six doors stood closed. The third door seemed to be the bedroom that Catherine Dixon had used during her sleepless nights, if the nightie on the carefully made bed was any indication. Nightingale looked around for something suitable, but saw no jewellery box. He thought about the wardrobes, but it would be just his luck to pick something she’d never worn. Then his glance fell on the laundry basket. It wasn’t the most tasteful thing he’d ever done, but he found what he was looking for.
He left the house, lit a cigarette and walked for ten minutes before calling for an Uber to take him to the Savoy.
CHAPTER 18
The taxi dropped Nightingale on The Strand and as he walked to the entrance of the Savoy, he lit another cigarette. ‘Got a spare smoke, mister?’ said a voice to his left. He knew who it was before he had even turned to look at her. She was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket over a black t-shirt with a white ankh symbol on it. She was sitting cross-legged on a piece of cardboard. He could see fishnet tights and ankle-length black boots. Her hair was short and spiky and her make up was black. Black eyeliner, eye-shadow, and lipstick and her nails were also a glossy black. There was another sheet of cardboard propped up against her knees on which was handwritten in capital letters the words HOMELESS – PLEASE GIVE WHAT YOU CAN.
‘Proserpine,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
There was a black and white collie with a black studded collar lying next to her and it growled softly. She reached over and scratched the dog behind the ear. ‘Easy boy,’ she said. ‘He won’t be here long.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ said Nightingale. He took out his pack of Marlboro and offered her a cigarette.
‘I’m just stating a fact.’ She took the cigarette. ‘Thank you.’ He reached into his pocket for his lighter but the end burst into flames and then settled into an orange glow. She took a long drag on the cigarette and then blew smoke into the air. It formed a perfect pentangle, held steady for a few seconds, and then dispersed in the evening breeze.
‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’ he asked.
She chuckled. ‘With the lovely Miss McLean? I don’t think so. When are you going to jump her bones, Nightingale?’
‘She’s staff. You don’t mess around with staff.’
She grinned mischievously. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Thinking and doing are two different things.’
‘In your world, maybe.’ she said. She took another pull on her cigarette and blew another smoke ring, this one in the s
hape of an upside down cross.
‘Now you’re just showing off,’ he said. The dog pricked up its ears and growled menacingly. ‘No offence,’ he said. The wind dispersed the cross. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t a social call,’ he said.
‘You’re heading into dangerous waters, Nightingale.’
‘The Savoy? One of the best hotels in the world.’
‘You’re putting your soul at risk,’ said Proserpine.
‘Last time I checked, my soul is my own.’
She smiled. ‘It’s so cute that you think that way,’ she said. ‘But we both know that your soul is mine, one way or another. You are going up against an enemy that has the power to take your soul, and you don’t seem to be aware of the danger you are in?’
‘The Vlach book? Is that what you’re talking about?’
‘The Vlach book can destroy your body but it will have no effect on your soul.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Nightingale tried to blow a smoke ring but failed miserably.
‘You need to take this seriously, Nightingale.’
‘Take what seriously?’
‘You have attracted the attention of a particularly nasty entity.’
‘Well that wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ He flashed a smile but he was trying to hide how worried he was. If Proserpine had come up from the bowels of Hell to deliver a warning, he would be stupid to not listen to her.
‘Tread very carefully, Nightingale,’ she said. ‘You really don’t understand how much danger you’re in.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Nightingale. ‘So there’s a demon on my case, is that it?’
She shook her head with a look of scorn. ‘No, he’s not one of us. He’s a bottom feeder. He takes souls wherever he can, but he’s not part of any plan.’
‘But you are?’
She wagged a warning finger at him, the nail sharp and pointed and as black as coal. ‘This isn’t about me, Nightingale. I’m just here to offer you some advice, whether or not you take it is up to you.’
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