The Parliament of Blood

by Justin Richards

  Lord Ruthven’s mouth opened in surprise.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sir William lied, ‘I have spent the best part of two days looking for a single photograph of you. And there is not one. Not even,’ he went on more slowly, more quietly, ‘the one that Fox Talbot’s assistant secretly took of you all those years ago in Lacock.’

  The door creaked slightly as it opened. The gaunt figure of the manservant stood framed in the pale glow from the hall outside.

  Lord Ruthven stood up. ‘I have to go now,’ he said. ‘If you will excuse me.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir William muttered, disappointed at the interruption. He sensed that he had been about to discover something important, but he feared the moment was gone.

  Lord Ruthven reached out to shake Sir William’s hand, and his own was ice cold. ‘But,’ he said quietly, ‘we must talk again. Soon.’ He nodded, and Sir William could again see the worry in the man’s dark eyes. ‘And I shall tell you what scares me.’

  The headstones looked as if they had been pushed up through the mist. Eddie was sitting on the low wall at the edge of the graveyard, swinging his feet and hugging himself against the damp cold of the evening. If Charlie had been some rich kid – or even someone with a family – he’d not have been rushed into the ground.

  As it was, he was in the coffin and under the earth in a couple of days. If there had been an inquest it was probably over in minutes. It didn’t seem fair. But then Charlie’s death was hardly fair. Eddie had only discovered that afternoon from Eve that there had been a short service on Sunday evening. She and Mikey had been there. Just them and the priest.

  If he’d known, he’d have gone. But the best Eddie could do now – the least he could do – was sit and keep poor Charlie company in the cold of the night. The evening had drawn in and the mist was getting thicker. Eddie realised he could no longer see the low mound of earth that covered his friend. No headstone yet, of course. You needed to wait for the ground to settle. And who’d buy a headstone for a kid like Charlie anyway? Who’d even know he was there …?

  He pushed himself off the wall and stuffed his hands into his pockets. There was a scraping, creaking sound from somewhere in the fog. Another grave being dug, maybe. Or someone else visiting a dearly departed. Eddie didn’t really care. The cold was numbing his thoughts and emotions as well as his fingers and toes.

  Then suddenly he was alert again. Staring into the murky evening at the mound of earth – at the ragged hole in it. Someone had been digging at Charlie’s grave. Eddie was running, skidding to a halt on the muddy ground at the edge and looking in. He could just make out the splintered wood of the coffin. He looked round – angry, afraid, shocked.

  And somewhere in the fog he could hear laughter. Mocking, high-pitched laughter, like a young woman. Or a child. There was a shape, barely more than a shadow, moving away into the gloom. Slipping and sliding in his haste, Eddie followed, desperate not to lose whoever it was in the foggy night.

  He had almost caught up with the figure when they reached the gate to the main road outside. If they knew they were being followed, they gave no sign. Despite being almost close enough to catch hold of the figure, Eddie could barely see it through the gloom. A small man hardly bigger than Eddie. But more than that he could not tell.

  It looked as though he would never find out, because in the street outside the graveyard was a carriage. Eddie could not see it. But he could hear the slam of the door, the stamp of the horses’ feet and the rumble of the wheels on the cobbles.

  Then the carriage clattered past him, horses pale as ghosts in the smog. Eddie leaped back out of the way. He almost fell. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the blood-red emblem on the carriage door – the ankh.

  He stirred at her voice. Liz had sat beside her father since Malvern had left. He was sleeping deeply, peacefully, and she had convinced herself that she could leave him. Not for long. Just for an hour or two.

  ‘I have to go out,’ she murmured, kissing him gently on the cold cheek. ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’

  He stirred, eyes flickering. His irises were wide and dark as he tried to focus. ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll stay if you want me to. But …’

  ‘I’m …’ He was still half asleep, still confused. ‘I need …’

  ‘Do you want a drink? There’s some soup left if you’d like.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t know,’ he admitted drowsily. ‘Need … something.’

  ‘A book?’ Liz wondered. ‘Your sermons?’ He was still shaking his head slowly, rolling it on the pillow. She remembered how agitated he had been the night before. ‘You mentioned a box.’

  Her father was still. His brow wrinkled and his eyes seemed more alert for a moment. ‘My box. Yes. Yes – my box.’

  ‘I don’t know what box you mean. Is it in your study?’

  ‘Silver box,’ he said, slipping back into sleep even as he was speaking. As if just the thought of it was a comfort. ‘Don’t open it. You mustn’t … Bottom left drawer of my desk …’ Then he was asleep again.

  Liz sat with him until it was almost eight. Then, satisfied that he was once again calm, she changed quickly into her best dress. She felt she ought to thank Malvern in some way for his concern and the invitation. But all she could think to give him was a jar of her father’s home-made raspberry jam.

  As she took a jar from the pantry and put it on the kitchen table, Liz remembered the silver box and went to look for it. The desk drawer was locked, but her father kept the small key tucked into the edge of the blotter.

  The silver box was the only thing in the drawer. It was about six inches square and four inches deep and looked very old. The silver had tarnished, and some of it came off black on her hand. There was a simple clasp holding the lid shut, and a cross stood proud of the top. It reminded Liz of the box her father had used to keep communion wafers in, only larger. Did he really want this old silver box with him? It was cold and stained …

  The sound of knocking at the door startled her. She put the box back in the desk drawer and started to close it. Then she stopped. She was going out, leaving her father on his own. He had asked her to do just one thing – to bring him this box.

  ‘I’ll be there directly,’ she called down the hall as she hurried upstairs to kiss her sleeping father gently goodbye.

  There was a line of carriages. Eddie could see the one with the red ankh symbol on the door. He’d been lucky to find a cab so quickly, and even luckier he had a few coins in his pocket.

  His cab had followed the carriage through London, and was now on the other side of the street from it. Eddie climbed out and gave a handful of coins to the driver.

  From further along, Eddie was able to angle himself to see the carriage as the door finally opened. But the person who got out was certainly not the person he had seen at the graveyard. It was a woman with long, black hair and pale delicate features. She was wearing a heavy, dark cloak that opened slightly as she climbed down from the carriage, to reveal a long scarlet dress.

  Eddie waited, but no one else emerged from the carriage. The door slammed shut and the carriage pulled away.

  With a sigh of annoyance, Eddie ran after it, wishing he’d stayed in his cab. Luckily the carriage did not go far. It turned at the end of the street, then again almost immediately – doubling round to the back of the same building.

  As it drew up again and once more the door swung open, Eddie realised where he was. He recognised the building and he knew instinctively that this must be where Charlie had seen the carriage.

  A small figure climbed out and walked slowly towards the back door. Eddie drew back into the shadows as the Coachman called out to the boy – because Eddie could see now that it was a boy. Dressed in a dark jacket and trousers that were caked in mud. A boy whose pale face was also smeared with grime, and whose unruly fair hair was stained brown by the earth.

  The boy turned as the Coachman spoke to him. Eddie couldn’t hear wh
at the Coachman said, couldn’t make out the shadowed features of the man’s face. But he could see the boy clearly now in the light spilling out of the building. It was Charlie. Charlie, who had climbed out of his grave to get into a carriage that had brought him here. To the Damnation Club.

  CHAPTER 8

  Liz stood at the side of the ballroom with Henry Malvern, watching the couples dancing, the people drinking. Everywhere she looked, men in smart dinner suits and women in beautiful gowns talked and danced and drank red wine. She felt underdressed and out of place. She was grateful for the mask.

  Malvern wore a plain black mask, a single red teardrop painted beneath one of the eye holes. The mask reached from his mouth to his hairline, so Liz had to judge his expression from his mouth and his eyes. He had brought a smaller half-mask for Liz. It covered just the area round her eyes. It was brilliant green, matching her dress, with thin black whiskers painted over the lower part and almond-shaped eye holes so that with her fair hair tied up behind her head she looked like a cat.

  The variety of masks was amazing. A horned devil danced with an angel – small wings attached to the side of the woman’s mask. A grotesque gargoyle was talking quietly to a woman whose face was covered by a blue butterfly. A woman with a totally blank white mask was standing with a man in a dark cloak whose entire face was a skull …

  Several waiters were carrying trays of drinks. The trays were made of a dull metal, perhaps pewter. The glasses of red wine looked heavy and misty with age. The waiters themselves were wearing grinning golden cherub masks that covered their entire faces. They were no bigger than children – perhaps they were children.

  One of the gold-faced waiters brought a tray over to Liz and Malvern. There were two glasses on it – one of red wine, one of white. Henry took the glass closest to him – the red wine. Liz was happy to take the white. It was sweet and viscous and she could immediately feel it going to her head. There did not seem to be anything to eat, and she hoped that food would be served later.

  Later … how long should she stay? Liz felt out of place already and she had only just arrived. And then there was her father … she should never have agreed to leave him. What had possessed her?

  Sensing Liz’s discomfort, Malvern raised his glass to her and his mouth smiled. ‘Your father will be fine,’ he assured her. ‘We need not stay long, then I will take you home. There are, I’m afraid, people here that I need to see but I can return and talk to them later.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself. Just for an hour. Forget your troubles and worries and make the most of the company and the dancing and the wine.’

  ‘I think the wine is a little strong,’ Liz admitted.

  ‘Then do not drink it. The red is … interesting.’ Malvern took Liz’s glass from her as a waiter walked past. ‘I’m not sure it’s really to my taste either.’ The waiter paused for him to place the glasses on the tray, then continued on his way.

  ‘The trouble with a masked ball,’ Malvern said after a few moments’ uncomfortable silence, ‘is that it is so difficult to recognise people you actually wish to speak to. Though I think I see Sir Harrison Judd.’

  ‘The police commissioner? He was at the Unwrapping the other evening.’

  ‘As was Lord Ruthven,’ Malvern said. He nodded towards a tall, thin figure who was handing his coat to one of the waiters at the door. His mask was divided in two down the middle. On one side, the face was white and smiled with an upturned cut-out mouth. On the other side it was black, the mouth turned down in misery.

  ‘How clever of you to know it was him,’ Liz said. ‘Do you come to many events here?’ She was not entirely sure where ‘here’ actually was.

  ‘I confess I saw Lord Ruthven putting his mask on. And no, I wouldn’t say that the Damnation Club is one of my frequent haunts.’

  ‘Damnation Club?’

  ‘Oh, just a nickname. It’s actually called, I believe, the Society for Mystic Nominees or something of the sort. The invitation is something of an honour.’ He leaned closer to Liz, and added quietly: ‘Though between you and me I can’t say I’m mightily impressed.’

  But Liz hardly heard this last comment. She was watching a figure arriving behind Lord Ruthven. A figure adjusting a plain black eye-mask similar to Malvern’s and dressed in a suit that looked decidedly shabby compared with the others on show.

  ‘George?’ she murmured. ‘What’s George Archer doing here?’

  A pale, thin-faced man greeted George at the door to the Damnation Club. He seemed to know who George was, and ushered him in with several other guests. If he thought that George looked a little down-at-heel compared with the others, he did not comment.

  ‘Mask, sir,’ was all he said as he took George’s coat.

  ‘Er, sorry.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, sir. The Society can provide. Please wait here.’ He returned a moment later without the coat, but with a small black mask that would cover George’s eyes and nose. He led George through a hallway to a large ballroom, and waited while George put on the mask before entering.

  The room seemed to be filled with dancing, talking people – all dressed more expensively than George and with more impressive masks. No one spared him a glance. He looked round, hoping to catch sight of Clarissa’s distinctive red dress.

  A woman was looking back at him, from the other side of the room. All he could see was her face, over the shoulder of the man she was with. The woman’s hair was tied up behind her head so George could not see it, and the face was hidden behind a green cat-like mask. But even so, George felt a sudden shock of recognition.

  ‘Liz?’ he said out loud.

  Then a couple on the dance floor between them obscured his view. A pig-faced man danced with a fox-headed woman. When their dance moved them on, the woman with the cat’s mask was gone.

  A hand came down on George’s shoulder and he turned, startled.

  ‘Mr Archer. I am so pleased you could come.’ The man wore a simple black mask like George’s. Seeing George’s confusion, he lifted it for a moment so George could see his face.

  ‘Sir Harrison,’ George said. ‘I’m sorry, you startled me. I was …’

  ‘Overwhelmed? It’s to be expected.’ Sir Harrison still had his hand on George’s shoulder and steered him further into the room as he spoke – away from where George thought he had seen Liz. ‘An impressive evening, though sadly our patron and benefactor – the man in whose honour we are holding this ball – is indisposed and cannot be with us. A great shame.’

  ‘I wish him a speedy recovery,’ George said.

  ‘As do we all. Let me introduce you to some of your fellow society members – or rather, future fellows. But we are all friends here.’ He paused to take two glasses of red wine from a passing waiter – a child in a golden cherub’s mask. ‘You will soon be a part of all this.’

  George sipped at the wine. It was heavy and slightly rough on the tongue with a strange, bitter metallic taste. It was certainly an impressive gathering. But George didn’t feel as if he fitted in at all. He was conscious of how awkward and out of place he must look in his old suit and scuffed shoes.

  He was barely aware of the people that Sir Harrison was introducing. With their masks, he was not sure he could recognise them again anyway. And he was constantly looking round for the woman with the cat mask – had he imagined it? Or was Liz here somewhere? Could she be a member of the Damnation Club?

  Sir Harrison steered George round several people who were laughing together in a corner. ‘And I think you already know this lady,’ he said.

  The woman with the cat mask was standing in front of them, as if she had been waiting for George. She wore a long, pale green dress trimmed with white lace. It looked simple compared with so many of the other women’s gowns, but that made her seem even more beautiful.

  Liz had murmured an apology to Malvern and hurried to find George. She pushed past people, apologising and smiling politely. But when she got to t
he door, the figure in the shabby suit was gone.

  She looked all round and thought she caught sight of him. She hurried towards the man, saw him pause to sip at his wine, and walk on.

  Eventually Liz managed to reach him. ‘George – it is you,’ she said. She felt surprised and relieved and slightly excited. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man in the shabby suit said in a voice that was not George’s. ‘I think you have me confused with someone else.’ And when he slowly lifted his mask to reveal the pasty, flabby features beneath, it was not George’s face either.

  ‘I’m so glad you came,’ the woman in the green dress said to George. She turned her head slightly, watching Sir Harrison leave, and George could see that her hair was midnight black.

  Taking his arm in hers, Clarissa led George through the room to an open door that led out on to a balcony looking out over a small lawn and a high wall beyond.

  ‘You changed your dress,’ George said. He was confused – had he seen Liz? No, it must have been Clarissa all along.

  ‘I prefer red,’ she told him. She still had hold of his arm, and was standing very close. She moved even closer and their bodies were almost touching. She reached up a gloved hand towards George’s face.

  George tried to answer, but no sound came from his mouth as Clarissa pressed her cold finger to his lips.

  ‘Red is quite my favourite colour,’ she said. ‘And very soon it will be yours too, I think.’ She lowered her hand and leaned towards George, still holding him tight by the arm.

  Her masked face filled George’s vision, and the rest of the world seemed to stop. Her eyes were so large, so beautiful, so deep and dark … He was falling into them. Any second he would feel her breath on his neck.

  ‘Clarissa!’

  The voice was a deep rasp. Clarissa at once stepped back, and George took a deep breath. The world was back, his vision clearing. It was as if he was waking from a heavy sleep.