by Adrian Cole
Both watchers were surprised to see the figure climb the steps and disappear within.
“If, as I suspect, Jameson, Fung Chang is at the bottom of this mystery, that is exactly the sort of residence in which he would secrete himself.”
“Quite. But which hotel is it? Quite frankly, I’m baffled.”
“You must expect only the unexpected from now on. Look, there is a sign near the steps. We must read it.”
Jameson would have urged caution, but Reverence strode on along the pavement until he was level with the large sign. Its message was simple:
LADY ANNABELLA HOTEL
MEETING OF THE PROPHETS’ GUILD
DAWN
NON-MEMBERS WELCOME
COFFEE SERVED
“Extraordinary,” murmured Jameson at the detective’s shoulder.
“We appear to be welcome,” Reverence smiled.
“For goodness’ sake, Reverence, you can’t mean to go in there! If it is a front for one of Dr. Fung’s wretched enterprises, we’ll be sticking our heads in the lion’s mouth. And besides, we’re hardly dressed properly!”
Reverence nodded. He had forgotten that he was still in his shirtsleeves. Jameson at least had on a smoking jacket, hardly the requisite wear. However, needs must. He was about to lead the way up the steps, when Jameson nudged his arm.
Two other figures were approaching. It was too late to avoid them. They were uniformed policemen, but as they drew level, they touched their helmets respectfully, said nothing and walked smartly up the steps to the hotel doors.
“The matter is decided,” Reverence said with a smug grin and Jameson followed him uncomfortably. “Let us visit this Guild.”
Jameson had no time to demur, following his impetuous friend uneasily up the steps. Once through the large double doors, they found themselves in an opulent foyer, comparable to the most expensive of the city hotels, all of which were known to them. In spite of what Reverence had told him, Jameson still looked for signs of the familiar. How could he possibly not know of this place? Surely for once Reverence was wrong: they could not possibly be other than in London.
A clerk eyed them from behind a splendid, polished counter, but Reverence ignored the quizzical expression on the fellow’s face and marched up to him with an air of hauteur that had withered many a clerk in the past.
“Good morning, sir,” the man said with a polite inclination of his head. “Are you members?”
“I regret that we are not. But I understand from your sign that we are able to attend the meeting of the Prophets’ Guild.”
“Indeed, sir. Might I be so bold as to suggest, however, that you take advantage of our haberdasher’s rental service?” The fixed smile did not alter.
“An excellent suggestion. Two jackets would be appropriate, I think.”
“What name is it, sir?”
“I am Palgrave Reverence and my companion is Doctor James Jameson. Forgive me, but in my haste to arrive in time for the meeting, I left not only my jacket but also my card behind.”
“I am sure that will not be a problem, sir.”
Jameson edged forward. “Regrettably, we have also left home without money.”
Reverence met the cool gaze of the clerk with equal equanimity. “I trust, however, that my reputation will stand me in good stead. Doubtless your members will know of me, at the very least.”
“I am sure you are correct, sir,” said the clerk, implying that he had never heard of the famous detective. “Would you like to sign the visitors’ book.”
Reverence and Jameson did so, the detective writing slowly with the quill pen in order to cast an eye over as many names as he could. None of them were familiar to him. In a small fitting room, another member of staff supplied them both with comfortable jackets, for which they signed a receipt.
They were directed to a large room on the ground floor, which was already filling up with chattering male visitors, all of whom seemed to be men of means. The air was dense with cigar smoke. Jameson noticed the two policemen, standing in the wings, engaged in a lively discussion with a very expensively dressed man, whose whiskers would have rivaled those of Pickwick himself. In fact, a number of the men here would not have been out of place in Dickensian society.
Reverence and Jameson sat near the back of the room and the only attention that appeared to be paid to them was a nod here or a brief wave of the hand there, as if they were simply being accepted as interested parties rather than intruders.
“Odd time to hold a meeting,” Jameson whispered. “Sort of thing the Theosophists get up to.”
“Ah, the paraphernalia of secret societies,” replied Reverence, craning his neck to see if he could single out anyone he knew. “Part of the ritual and quite common.”
“What do you hope to gain from this, Reverence?”
“If the Chinaman came in here, someone knows him.”
Moments later, a deep voice called for order. At the front of the room, a long table had been set out in front of the audience, now a hundred strong, and behind it sat six men in varying modes of dress that were generally at variance with those of their audience. “They have the look of writers and poets,” Reverence said softly to Jameson in a tone that suggested he mildly disapproved of such creatures.
“Gentlemen, I am pleased to introduce this morning’s speakers for the Prophets’ Guild,” announced the man who had spoken, an elderly, elegant patron who indicated the six with a theatrical sweep of his hand. “Stafford Bellinger, Robert Balvoir, Herbert Wells, Sir Percy Alderling, Hugo Topping and Sir Henry Riderman.” At each name there was spirited applause, all of the assembled six bowing in acknowledgement.
“Any of them familiar to you, Jameson?” prompted Reverence.
“I’m afraid not, Reverence. Neither by face nor reputation.”
“This morning,” the speaker went on, “we are particularly delighted to welcome Mr. Wells, who will be reading several extracts from his new work, shortly to be published, The Tides of Time. I am assured that the subject, though couched in fiction, deals with a very intriguing topic, namely the nature of time and the potential for travel within it. Ah, yes, already I hear murmurs of puzzlement. Well, gentlemen, you shall have your chance after the readings! Our colleagues here will lead us in the debate. So, without further ado, I give you, Herbert Wells.”
The young man that had been addressed rose to his feet with an assurance that belied his youth, for he could have been little more than two score years in Reverence’s estimation. He spoke in a soft but eloquent voice, propounding various theories about his subject. If anyone there found it preposterous, they gave no outward show. Jameson felt his curiosity roused, though his scepticism remained relatively intact. The extracts from the novel were even more interesting, the crisp, flowing style of the prose delivered in an equally easy voice by its author.
Jameson turned to Reverence for an opinion, but the detective was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, though undoubtedly taking everything in, sifting and analysing it. As he did so, Jameson looked across to the side of the room. His eyes met the level gaze of the man they had pursued into the building, the Chinese. He stood with folded arms, rigid as a statue, his eyes fixed on Jameson and his companion as a hawk fixes its prey. Jameson found himself unable to meet the intensity of the gaze, but from time to glanced across at the Oriental. The suit that the man wore seemed incongruous, for all its evident expense.
“Like someone from the wrong time,” came Reverence’s soft whisper, though his eyes remained shut.
“Whatever do you mean, Reverence? Surely you don’t take any of this scientific mumbo-jumbo seriously?”
“Where Fung Chang is concerned, I take everything seriously. Is our inscrutable friend alone?”
Jameson slowly scanned the rest of the room, but the Oriental watcher had no visible accomplices. Jameson whispered this, but before Reverence could comment, the speaker had concluded his readings and again the hall echoed to the sound of applause, this ti
me loud and prolonged. There then followed the promised debate, and although Reverence was sorely tempted to participate, testing some of the theories that were being propounded to their limit, he decided against drawing attention to himself.
At last it was over, with the promise of coffee served in another room.
“Follow him as discreetly as we can,” Reverence said, looking everywhere but at the Chinaman.
“I think the boot is on the other foot. He’s waiting for us.”
Reverence’s lips pursed in a grim smile. “Is he indeed? Then it’s time to take up the gauntlet.”
“That’s all very well, Reverence, but I recall quite vividly our conversation about trapping wasps. I have a disturbing notion that we are about to enter the jar.”
Reverence grunted dismissively and gestured impatiently for Jameson to follow him. The detective pushed his way through the empty chairs to where the Chinaman waited, arms still folded, face serene. He was in his thirties, his body lean, relaxed but poised, as if ready to move quickly if necessary.
“Mr. Reverence,” he said, with a deep bow. “It is an honour to meet someone with such an esteemed reputation.” His English was perfect, with hardly a trace of accent.
The detective inclined his head. “Thank you. You’ll pardon me, but we have not met before.”
“No. I am Li Sung. My master greatly wishes to speak to you on certain matters. Will you do him the honour of visiting him?” As he spoke, the three of them were moving with the flow of bodies from the hall into the side room. Reverence felt something hard nudging him in the small of the back. Clearly it was a pistol of some kind.
“I hardly think you’re going to use that in here,” he told Sung.
“Not to kill you, Mr. Reverence. Dr Fung wants you alive. This is simply loaded with something to make you more compliant. I would rather not have to resort to using it. It would be so undignified.” He had edged the detective to the side of the room, near to a door. Reverence had to concede that it had been beautiful done. “Do not think to run, Mr. Reverence. Several of my fellows are waiting outside.”
Jameson was scowling, unaware of his companion’s dilemma.
“Open the door, Mr. Reverence,” said Sung. “Send the Doctor through first. Then follow him, very slowly.”
Reverence eased the door open, tensing himself, but Sung was extremely wary. “You go first, Jameson.”
Jameson’s frown deepened. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Reverence nodded. Slowly Jameson went through the door. Reverence felt the gun removed from his spine.
Another muted voice broke into his concentration, directed at Sung. “Unlike your gun, pal, mine is loaded with the real thing. You take one breath too many and I’ll use it. My boss doesn’t care whether I take you alive or not.” The owner of this gruff whisper, was a medium-built character in a faded raincoat, jaw working as he chewed rapidly on something.
Sung was forced through the door and the utterly perplexed Jameson drew back into the hall to stand beside a marginally less puzzled Reverence.
“Find yourself something else to do,” said the newcomer to Sung, closing the door on a cold, murderous gaze. He turned to the detective. “Let’s move,” he prompted, slipping his weapon deep within the pocket of his coat.
Reverence and Jameson followed him swiftly. Behind them, the door remained shut. Sung must have decided against histrionics.
“No time for explanations,” said the man in the raincoat. “You’re with friends, believe me. But we ain’t outta the woods yet.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Riderman
Grimsfeather seemed reluctant to tell Rocklyn and Mears anything further, contenting himself with saying they had to get away quickly. He took them back out into the night, down several rickety fire escapes to a narrow street, where he had arranged for a Hansom to be waiting. The driver was wrapped up in a thick cloak, face obscured, muffled in a black scarf, eyes observing them indifferently. Below his perch, the horse turned to study the men with vague interest, white clouds of breath drifting on the chilly night air.
“Sit well back. We travel quickly,” said Grimsfeather.
The two men did as bidden, entering the comfortable cab. Grimsfeather hunched up beside the silent driver and at once the cab jerked into motion.
“You seem to know a lot about Craig Rocklyn,” the American said quietly, his mouth set. “How come?”
Mears felt a shiver of fear. “I don’t really know how to explain this —”
“I think you’d better try.”
“Yes.” Mears pulled the envelope from his pocket and removed the single sheet from it, handing it Rocklyn.
The American took it and read it. “The five who are six.”
“Like us, they’re here. They must have come the same way as we did, through the storm.”
“What do you know about the storm?”
“It was no ordinary storm. I was reading about it at the same time that I was in it,” said Mears, frowning in concentration.
“Go on.”
“Okay, but you’ll think I’m out of my head.”
“Try me.”
“I know who you are and what you were doing when the storm hit you.”
Rocklyn’s face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on Mears. He nodded, waiting.
“You were in Stark City, on the roof of the building opposite the Paragon Building. There were three assassins, a helicopter. You’d been chasing the assassins after you’d foiled their attempt to kill Randolph Harling —”
“How the hell do you know this? You realise how dangerous that knowledge is?” Rocklyn’s face looked grim, his annoyance barely under control. “You couldn’t have been there.” Who the hell is this guy? And who sent him?
“In my world, you only exist in —”
“In what?”
“In fiction. Darkwing isn’t real in my world,” Mears said quietly.
“Do I look real?” Rocklyn snorted.
“Of course. In this world, you are as real as I am. And the others, the five who are six. I have a feeling they will be real here, too. It should be impossible, but you’re here.”
“So, what fiction? Where did you read about me?”
“In a comic book. In my world, you’re a comic book character.” Mears swallowed hard as he said it. He’ll think I’m a lunatic. What else could he think?
To his huge relief, Rocklyn leaned back into the padded seating and laughed softly. “Really? A comic book character? Well, that’s rich!”
“It’s the same with the others — well, almost. The Barbarian is from a pulp novel, Mire-Beast is from a pulp magazine, Cyberwolf is from a graphic novel and Reverence and James are from some old books. All characters from fiction.”
“In your world.”
“Yes. The common factor is that storm.” Mears told him about what he had read in the Athenaeum. “The storm links us all.”
When he had finished, Rocklyn was no longer smiling, his face set in a grim mask, as though he had resigned himself to the situation and was now intent on finding a solution to the problem. Mears was surprised. But then it struck him that in the world of Darkwing, the comic book world, situations like this were commonplace, in fact, they were the stuff that such a world thrived on.
“So who are we up against?” said the American. “Who do these Shuddermen work for?”
“I guess we’ll know when we get to wherever Grimsfeather is taking us.”
The strange figure beside the driver turned at mention of his name. “We are cutting through the Roman sector. It’s safer and will save us some time,” he grunted. “Keep well out of sight.”
Mears and Rocklyn exchanged baffled glances in the shadowy light.
“The Roman sector?” grunted Rocklyn. “Did I hear that right?”
Mears threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I think we have to expect anything.” And I’m really losing the threads of this.
They obeyed
Grimsfeather’s instructions and kept well back, but they both craned their necks to get some sort of view of the city outside. The street had become much rougher, either cobbled or paved with stone, the buildings flattening out, their style daubed in the first rays of dawn. Amazingly they did resemble the patrician residences of Rome, with low, red-tiled roofs and pale walls. Coming down the street towards them they heard the tramp of feet, a group of soldiers, marching four abreast and ten deep, each man carrying a broad shield and a spear.
The Hansom cab pulled up before them as their leader raised a hand and stood alongside. He spoke to Grimsfeather, who hopped down and engaged him in a lively conversation for several minutes. The soldiers, who Mears studied from the shadows, looked like nothing less than a watch of legionaries. He was too dumbfounded to say anything.
However, their leader nodded to Grimsfeather and turned to call instructions to his men. The little man hopped back up beside the driver and the cab moved off once more. Grimsfeather again turned to his passengers, a half smile on his face.
“Lentullus Secundus. I know him. His men will keep our back covered if anyone is following us. They won’t get past his legionaries.”
Mears and Rocklyn merely nodded, as if such a thing was perfectly normal. They continued the journey in silence, each wrapped in his confused thoughts.
* * * *
Reverence and Jameson followed their rescuer closely through the last of the guests of the Prophets’ Guild. Some of these nodded at their passing, but more in politeness than recognition. The man in the raincoat led them up a broad flight of stairs to a wide landing and then up more stairs, keeping his eyes open for any sign of pursuit or interference, one hand on his pocketed weapon.
“If there’s one thing,” Reverence breathed to Jameson, “that convinces me that we’re not in our own world, it’s this: no one here has recognised me. Can you imagine a hotel in London, populated with such people, where this would happen?”