“Below what? The floor? The ground? The pavement?” asked Sinclair.
“Below the city, my lord. Up near the old Roman wall. A place where the devil hisself walks abou’ come nightfall!” the man exclaimed, crossing himself once more.
Charles looked to Ifan Davies for help. “Is your friend prone to exaggeration?”
The sexton shook his head. “Not a bit of it, my lord. And what he’s sayin’ is true. I’ve heard them rumours as well. There’s a new building up by Finsbury Circus, what folks says is haunted. There’s strange doin’s come nightfall. Ghosts an’ the like.”
“New building? Where?”
“On Wormwood, sir. Close to the old church yard.”
Charles felt that disquieting chill again, as though all this were familiar. 33 Wormwood. Where the late Lewis Merriweather once kept offices.
Romanov said nothing; merely tapped on his cane, as though communicating through code.
“Do forgive me, gentlemen,” the Russian said at last. “I’m late for a meeting at the War Office. I’m sure you’ll work all this out—eventually.”
Charles also had appointments. “Mr. Jarvis, this is what you’re going to do. Screw down the lid of the coffin and tell Lady Wychwright that I gave you the order to do so. I shall be happy to sign something, if required, but say nothing about the body’s disappearance. I shall look into the matter myself. The widow needn’t know anything. Not yet. Do you understand?”
“I does, m’lord. And Davies won’t say nuffin’ neever.”
Charles withdrew an ICI calling card from a chased silver holder. “This is the address where you may reach me. Queen Anne House. It’s the main headquarters for the law enforcement organisation I represent. Stop by there tomorrow morning, anytime after ten, and we’ll speak more of these rumours. If I’m unavailable, ask for my secretary, Gerald Pennyweather. He’ll know how to find me. Also, I’d like to know more about these strange deaths in Vienna. The men’s names again?”
“Cooper and Price, m’lord. They was stayin’ at an ‘otel called the Empire or mayhap it were the Emperor, somewhere in Vienna. I ain’ good on stuff like tha’, sir, but I can arsk me missus. Sue’s go’ a better mem’ry than me.”
“I’ll start with that information, but if Mrs. Jarvis recalls further details, send word to me at Queen Anne House. Now, go about your business and leave everything else to me.”
Sinclair and the prince left the church yard, and Romanov walked his friend to the Haimsbury Coach, where Hamish Granger kept watch.
Romanov bid his friend farewell. “Allow me to look into the deaths of Cooper and Price on your behalf, Charles. Exsanguination is one of Saraqael’s favourite methods for murder, but there are others amongst my kind who consider human blood a delicacy.”
“Is Serena Di Specchio one of your kind?” Sinclair asked as Granger opened the coach door.
“Not exactly, but she does have an unquenchable thirst for blood. I fear she and Saraqael have formed an alliance, but it is doomed to failure. Neither can be trusted. There’s no honour amongst thieves or vampires. If you have need of me, just petition the One, my friend. Do not summon me directly.”
“I never would, but if the Lord sends you, then that is another matter entirely.”
Romanov bowed gracefully. “Until next we meet, then.” He started to turn, but paused. “One final thought, Charles. Keep your eyes open over Christmastide and stay close to the duchess. A sharp-eyed watch dog makes a helpful companion, but she must never wander the grounds on her own. Good day.”
Charles started to ask for an explanation of the warning, but the mysterious prince had already vanished. No sooner had the elusive elohim performed his trick than a second Haimsbury coach pulled up next to Granger’s.
A young footman named Bryce emerged from the interior and handed a folded message to the duke. “From Lord Salperton, sir. It was delivered to Haimsbury House half an hour ago. The duchess thought it best we convey it to you here.”
“Thank you, Bryce. Is all well at home?”
“Very well, my lord. The rooms are set for tonight’s party, and Mr. Baxter believes it will be a very great success.”
“Lady Victoria’s parties are always a success,” replied the duke as he read Henry’s message. “Very well. I’m afraid I cannot do as the viscount asks. I’m already late for a meeting at D-Division. Bryce, would you be good enough to take a message to Fulham for me? Montmore House, just off Warwick Road.”
“Of course, my lord. What message?”
“Ask Lord Salperton to meet me at Tilsbury Tea Room around ten. If I’m delayed, ask him to wait.”
“Very good, sir. Tilsbury Tea Room at ten.”
The young man departed, and the duke entered his own coach. As they pulled away, Sinclair felt a sense of sorrow. He was leaving Albert yet again to the solitary confines of a lonely cemetery. Certainly, his soul and spirit were not there, but a piece of him was: the ashes Charles had received after his son’s body was cremated. He’d make a resolution to visit more often with Beth and eventually their children. Standing beside Albert’s grave brought a kind of peace to his heart. A sense of completion.
Soon, he’d be a father again, but there was much to do before the twins arrived. Redwing must be routed and the Watchers unmasked. But how? He’d call a meeting as soon as possible. At Branham, perhaps. If last night’s dream had any truth to it, then they had to decipher the puzzle chamber as soon as possible.
First, find Lorena MacKey, he thought as they crossed over Great Portland Street. Not only to make sure of her welfare, but also to seek her advice. As a former member of William Trent’s Round Table, MacKey had knowledge they needed.
Chapter Ten
Lion Hall
As the spring-like morning gave way to colder air, the Cambridge men continued the tedious work within the newly discovered burial chamber. The hand-hewn vault ran for thirty feet and connected to a series of unmapped tunnels. Blackstone’s leadership believed a network of tunnels, just beyond the crypt, led to a massive cavern sitting a hundred feet beneath St. Arilda’s Abbey, once a site of pagan worship and the burning of a Satanic abbot in 1589. The legendary passage between Lion Hall and the old abbey had yet to be found, but if the team could discover such a path, then every man would earn a bonus of two hundred pounds.
The trio worked in silence, each man documenting the appearance and in situ artifacts within his own section of the newly discovered crypt. Occasionally, one would whistle a music hall tune or quote lines from a Shakespeare sonnet or play; Hamlet and Macbeth being favoured. Finally, to counter the oppressive boredom, Patterson and Wentworth commenced a long debate on the nature of superstition and religion.
Seth usually remained silent during the students’ theological discussions, for his own beliefs were rooted in experiences few men would credit. Whilst surveying the tombs of Egypt and Assyria, he’d heard the Bedouins tell terrifying tales that haunted him to this day: legends of invisible doorways in the desert; of female demons who would entice you with love and then steal your seed; of jinns that could fly upon the slightest breeze and even travel through time; and of shape-shifting shamans who served these hungry demons, ready to sacrifice animals or even humans to appease their ravenous gods.
These powerful sorcerers could curse their enemies, hypnotise the living, and even raise the dead. Seth had witnessed their supernatural powers with his own eyes; even encountering what he believed was a succubus in his tent one night whilst encamped near the base of Mt. Hermon. The experience had forever shaken the young man’s worldview.
Raised in an old Enlightenment family with blood ties to the founding members of the Lunar Society of Birmingham as well as Sir Francis Dashwood’s Hellfire Club, he’d always assumed mankind’s greatest achievements would be gained only after the extinction of all formal religion. However he’d begun to doubt his father’s cr
eed. Seth had come to think the Bible might hold some truths within its pages, but he wasn’t yet confident enough to reveal that nascent faith to his fiercely anti-Christian companions.
“I’m going to sketch out these statues,” he told the students, deciding to avoid their conversations entirely. “Keep track of the time, lads. We’ll meet up in an hour for luncheon, and then work until four. No later. Is that clear? The sun sets early in these woods.”
Peter Patterson waved from a spot near the second of two large statues. The first was a regal-looking man with painted black hair and light blue eyes, who carried a book in his left hand, a sword in the right. The other statue was of a man-sized bird with painted black plumage and disturbingly yellow eyes.
“Sure thing!” Patterson answered. “I’ll tell Lionel. He’s decided to look for those tunnels.”
Seth put down his pencil and sketch pad. “No, Pitt. No one’s to wander off on his own. There are some very treacherous passages beneath this estate, and some have collapsed.”
“How do you know so much?” challenged the younger man. “The colonel’s not mentioned anything about collapsed sections.”
“Experience. I’ve been through many of them before—long ago. Now, do as I say, Pitt.”
“Aye, aye, your lordship!” the young student sang back cheerfully. “I’ll warn Worthy.”
Moving through the small opening beyond the bird effigy, Peter Patterson, also known as Pitter-Patter or just Pitt, entered a forked junction of dressed stone. One branch wandered off to his left, the other to his right. He had no way of guessing which Wentworth had taken. After tossing a coin, Pitt turned right.
Local time had just ticked over to the hour of one, when Lionel Wentworth, who’d taken the left-hand path, reached a tiny opening that looked far too regular to be natural. Indeed, upon close inspection, the edges revealed chisel marks and a dressed stone lintel. After squeezing through the narrow portal, Wentworth emerged into a grand gallery, lined with perfectly formed, rectangular limestone blocks. He’d seen paintings of similar galleries at the British Museum, and it reminded him of an Egyptian tomb. Every square inch of the smooth walls and ceiling was covered in colourful imagery and symbols, and the floor glowed red with ochre paint. Arched niches were carefully built into the polished walls, and most held animal-headed idols, presumably placed there by the tunnel’s builders. Yet, it all looked impossibly new, as though the owners might return at any moment to commence a pagan rite in honour of their strange, hybrid gods.
Lionel stared at the mysterious corridor before him, his thoughts distracted by the fair face of Wanda Stephens. He planned to steal a few moments with her after supper and discover just how sweet Wanda’s ruby lips tasted. The anticipation tore at him, making Lionel a man of two minds. On the one hand, he wanted desperately to impress Colonel Collinwood in hopes of securing a full-time position on one of the Society’s French digs. However, accomplishing this meant following the colonel’s instructions to the letter, which also meant remaining in the newly discovered gallery until he’d completed the initial survey.
Blackstone’s rules were these: Each time a new section was discovered, the team member involved was to measure the area and make notations of all he could see. In this case, Lionel must step off the width and breadth of the long gallery, estimate the height, and then record the measurements in a leather-bound book that bore the Society’s name embossed in gold upon the exterior. The idea of ‘stepping off’ the distance was hardly scientifically accurate, but the colonel explained it as the ‘first of many steps’ (clearly amused at his clever pun) and that a thorough survey would be made by a professional team once the duchess approved the March phase of the project.
In addition to jotting down rough dimensions, Wentworth had to sketch any interesting features and then describe them in a short paragraph. It all felt like busywork, but it was well-paying busywork, and he forced himself to concentrate on the task. The sooner done; the sooner he could kiss the lovely Wanda’s lips.
As he walked the gallery’s length, Lionel overheard whispered voices. Assuming them to be his companions, he followed the sound to a low doorway, not more than three feet high. It was a tight squeeze for a grown man, but he managed it; and after crawling ten feet or so through a cramped tunnel, Wentworth emerged into an enormous, natural cavern. Its otherworldly beauty made him audibly gasp.
Up until this moment, the complex tunnels beneath Lion Hall had proven somewhat challenging to navigate. Most rose no higher than five-and-a-half feet, some far less, meaning six-foot Wentworth had to duck most of the time; and even in the taller sections, the walls often narrowed so severely that he was forced to remove his rucksack and pickaxe, and then turn to the side in order to pass through.
This chamber offered something entirely new. Here, the ceiling soared to fifty feet or more; the width spanned thrice the height, and the overall sensation was akin to standing in the nave of a magnificent cathedral. However, Wentworth sensed nothing holy here; rather, a heavy sensation descended upon his shoulders like a dense shroud of inexplicable gloom. His ears rang with echoes of men’s voices, like dissonant Gregorian chants; as though invisible wraiths huddled round, whispering evil thoughts into his mind.
Ever the proud rationalist, Lionel shook off the worrying sensation and proceeded to examine the cavern. Since his lantern provided the only source of light, he kept it close as he moved about the ancient chamber. Turning to the left, he discerned a connecting passage, just beyond an arched opening containing a set of curving, well-worn steps, hewn into the glittering rock. He peered into this area and discovered, to his utter surprise, a child’s doll, sitting upon the final step as though it had just climbed down the winding staircase.
Lionel knelt to collect the doll, holding it up to the lantern’s flickering yellow light. The perfect little face was formed of fine French bisque and adorned with large irises made of tiger eye and jet beads. The cheeks and mouth were painted in a delicate shades of rosy pink. The black hair felt uncannily real, as though taken from the head of a living girl. The shiny locks curled down the doll’s back, ending just above the waist in a trio of ringlets, bound with a black velvet ribbon.
Someone had paid a great deal of money for this lifelike toy, for it had moveable limbs and the porcelain skin had a sensual texture to it, as though wrapped in actual skin. She wore a blue silk dress trimmed in fine fur, and a choker of tiny seed pearls adorned the slender neck; a sapphire pin accented the white fur of the black velvet cloak. A pair of finely sewn kid gloves hung from the left wrist, and the doll’s small feet were shod in real leather boots, latched by pearl buttons. Even the fingernails were perfect. It was an exact replica of a little girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, but it had a most peculiar aspect to it; for tucked inside the expensive costume, Wentworth discovered a leather bag filled with tiny bones.
“What devilment is this?” he asked aloud. “Mouse or bird bones, perhaps? But why?”
He held the fragile bones up to the lamplight for close examination. The longest of the five bones measured no more than one inch in length, and there appeared to be striations etched upon them; perhaps even symbols.
“You’re certainly a mystery,” he told the enigmatic toy. “You’ve hardly a spot of dust, and you look brand new. How did you come to be down here with your little bag of bones?”
He returned the strange bones to the bag and tucked it into the doll’s rich cloak for safekeeping. Then, Wentworth inverted the toy to admire the craftsmanship further. He noticed the shoes bore initials, tooled into each sole with a fine awl: E. Anjou.
“E. Anjou?” he wondered aloud. “Seems to me Danny Stephens mentioned the duchess was Marchioness of Anjou when she was a girl. I’ll wager you belong to her. She’s all grown up and married since she last carried you,” he told the doll, “but that doesn’t explain how you came to find your way down here, does it? Little dolly, you might just
be my ticket to meeting Her Grace, eh? She might even offer a reward for so fine a friend. That’d burn old Holly’s blue-blood biscuits, now wouldn’t it?”
The doll’s dark eyes glimmered, and for a brief second, it seemed that the pupils dilated, causing the tiger eye irises to turn completely black.
Nearly dropping the toy from shock, Wentworth quickly grasped its dress to keep it from breaking. “You’re a strange one,” he told the doll. To prevent accidental damage, he secured the valuable toy within the grey canvas rucksack; where it joined a Richie compass, a pewter flask of water, four Faber pencils, a hunting knife, the Society’s notebook, a box of yellow-tipped matches, a thin rope with equidistant knots for measuring, the food box from The Abbot’s Ghost, and the Blackstone map. The doll barely fit into the crowded interior, so he removed the food box, deciding he could come back for it later.
After closing the brass buckle, Lionel shouted for his comrades. “Pitt! Holly! I found the steps up to the old abbey! I’m standing right underneath it! We’ve a bonus coming, chaps! You should see it! This chamber’s enormous!”
Hearing no reply, Lionel continued the survey, finding, to his very great delight, a pair of torches bolted to the wall near the upward passage where he’d discovered the doll. After lighting each with a match, their luminescence revealed additional sconces on the other walls of the grand cavern, He struck a match to each and was able to move about the chamber as easily as one might do in a public building.
Wentworth stepped off the width and marked it as ‘approx. 50 yards’. Likewise with the length, listing it as ‘approx. 90 yards but continues round a narrow bend, perhaps into second chamber or cavern’. The domed ceiling was decorated with brightly coloured paintings similar to those in the gallery, and the floor was brushed with the same blood-red ochre paint—or it least it looked like paint. The central area showed evidence of fire and scorching, and Lionel wondered if the old abbot and his demon-worshipping brethren had once met down here. A fire for warmth made sense, but the same blaze might also serve a ritualistic purpose. The thought made Lionel shiver, and for a moment, the whispers met his ears again, like tickles of spectral smoke made of sound.
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