CONTENTS
Cover
Also by Mark A. Latham and available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Part Two
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
The
LEGION
PROPHECY
Also by Mark A. Latham and available from Titan Books
The Lazarus Gate
The Iscariot Sanction
Sherlock Holmes: A Betrayal in Blood
Sherlock Holmes: The Red Tower (March 2018)
The
LEGION
PROPHECY
MARK A. LATHAM
TITAN BOOKS
The Legion Prophecy
Print edition ISBN: 9781783296842
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296859
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: September 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2017 Mark A. Latham. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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The
LEGION
PROPHECY
To Mat, for, among other things,
saving me from death by headdesk.
PART ONE
Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,
Making earth wonder,
So was their meaning to her words. No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl’d,
But one poor poet’s scroll, and with his word
She shook the world.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
PROLOGUE
Monday, 12th May 1890, midnight
THE FURNIVAL ESTATE, WEST SUSSEX
Sir Arthur Furnival sat in his favourite armchair near the fireplace, swirling brandy around his glass thoughtfully. Jenkins prodded at the fire one last time. The night wasn’t cold, but something about the flames seemed to bring cheer to the old house, and Jenkins wanted his master to cheer up more than anything, for he had been so terribly pained of late.
It had been an hour since the last of the dinner guests had left. Sir Arthur was notoriously reclusive, but lately he’d begun to host the occasional spiritualist gathering, whose exclusivity ensured they had become the envy of every medium in England. Arthur Furnival’s powers, so long a closely guarded secret by the upper echelons of society, were on the cusp of becoming a sensation. He was a man possessed, it seemed, by some newfound enthusiasm, and had embraced his uncanny abilities afresh. Tonight’s séance had enthralled his special invitees, but had left Sir Arthur deep in one of his troughs of despair.
‘Thank you, Jenkins; that will be all.’ The baronet sounded weary.
‘If it’s not too bold, sir, might I say something?’ Jenkins asked.
‘I know what you’re going to say, Jenkins. But I can’t stop, not yet.’ Sir Arthur often talked to Jenkins in a manner too familiar for servant and employer. However, Jenkins liked to think he had proven himself a worthy confidant time and again, and over the years the baronet had come to rely on his valet as both trusted servant and, perhaps, moral compass.
The strain was showing; Sir Arthur grew more pale and gaunt with each passing day. He had dark rings around his eyes from lack of sleep, a consequence of the night terrors he experienced with increasing regularity.
‘It’s just that it’s taking more out of you, sir, every time. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I know it’s dangerous. And these guests o’ yours, they don’t see what it does to you.’
‘Enough, Jenkins,’ said Sir Arthur, wearily rather than angrily. ‘If I can bring peace to one poor, bereaved soul then it’s worth the effort. Not that the séances really work that way… No, I have to keep at it, because there’s something – someone – out there, trying to contact me. It’s been getting clearer, stronger, ever since May Day, and it’s close now. So very close…’ He trailed off again.
‘So you get them all here to help ’em contact the spirits, but really you’re just doing it for yourself? If you don’t mind me saying, sir…’
‘Now you are being too bold, Jenkins,’ Sir Arthur snapped.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Jenkins did not believe his master was a fraud, despite his fears. Jenkins was a down-to-earth man, but he’d seen Sir Arthur’s uncanny abilities at play often enough to be convinced of life after death, though the knowledge was rarely as comforting as they made out in church.
‘I’m fully aware of how it sounds,’ Sir Arthur sighed. ‘I know I risk turning into the very thing that I’ve always despised: a showman, a charlatan. I journey to the spirit realm, and try my best to interpret the portents, all the while telling my guests what they want to hear. They go home happy, my reputation grows, and I take one step nearer to unravelling this confounded mystery. It’s so close, Jenkins… I have a part to play yet, and I must find out what it is. It’s as though all my life I’ve been waiting for something, and now…’
Sir Arthur’s eyes began to close even as he spoke, and his voice slowed as tiredness overcame him. Jenkins took the glass from his master’s hand and placed it on the mantel, before hoisting Sir Arthur from the chair and helping the exhausted baronet upstairs. It was an increasingly regular occurrence; Jenkins was beginning to fear not only for his master’s health, but for his frame of mind.
* * *
Sir Arthur woke abruptly. He’d been having his nightmare again, though this time it had been somewhat different. The pale young woman who so often haunted his dreams – the one with the fearful dark eyes – had seemed nearer somehow, her voice clearer. He had dreamt of her, saying over and over: She is coming. Be ready. She is coming. The sound of the shade’s voice had been accompanied by the ticking of a clock, which
had grown louder and louder until it almost deafened him, and this was what had shaken Sir Arthur from the bonds of slumber.
He looked around; it was dark, save for a narrow shaft of moonlight that fell across his bedclothes. Wind howled outside, and rain pattered in the gutters. A branch of the willow tree outside his window rapped rhythmically on the casement – the clock of his dreams, he realised. He rubbed at his face and reached for his candle. As he did, he heard a sigh. His skin prickled.
She is coming.
Sir Arthur scrabbled for a match and lit the candle. As the flame danced into life, he scanned the room nervously, and fancied that the retreating shadows harboured a pale, wasted woman, drifting from his vision like the afterthought of a dream. For a second he felt the fear of the nightmare returning, but as the candle flame grew stronger he saw he was alone.
The knock at his door almost made him jump out of his skin. He had not called out in his sleep this night, he was sure, and so he had not expected any servant to come to check on him.
‘Who… who is it?’ Sir Arthur called out.
‘It’s Jenkins, sir.’
Sir Arthur heaved himself out of bed, and when he opened the door, he found Jenkins wearing an anxious expression.
‘What is it, man?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought I’d better fetch you right away. She won’t rest until she’s seen you.’
‘What? Who won’t rest?’ Sir Arthur remembered the chill words of the dream-wraith with a shudder.
‘Says she’s your niece, sir. Come knocking at this ungodly hour, and she’s in an awful state.’
Sir Arthur trusted enough in his own powers to know that this strange occurrence must not be put down to mere coincidence. He threw on a robe. Halfway down the stairs, he saw the shadow of a woman pacing the hall. A few more steps, and he saw her: skin pale, white dress muddied and torn. She was soaked through from rain. It dripped from her clothes, forming puddles on the tiles. She was so thin that when she stopped pacing and looked up at him, he half expected her eyes to be glassy and black, like the spirit of his nightmares made manifest. But these were not the eyes of some shade. They were human eyes, large and blue, pleading.
‘Uncle Arthur,’ she said in an unmistakeable American accent. ‘It’s me, Marie. I need your help.’
Sir Arthur realised he was holding his breath. He could not think that he knew a Marie, least of all a niece, although true enough she bore a familial resemblance. He had a very bad feeling about what this girl represented, but he heard the voice in the back of his mind: She is coming. Be ready.
‘Please, Uncle,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know where else to turn; I’ve come a long way to find you. A very long way.’
And as she fixed him with the most determined stare he’d ever seen from a young lady, he understood.
Sir Arthur looked to Jenkins, wondering if his valet would remember that the American Furnivals had no daughters that he knew of. For now, Sir Arthur would play along. ‘My dear girl,’ he said, ‘let Jenkins get you a place by the fire, and some dry clothes. I shall go and dress, and be right with you. We have much to discuss.’
* * *
Saturday, 19th December 1891, 6.15 p.m.
PIMLICO, LONDON
‘Where the devil are they?’ Captain James Denny peered again through his eyeglass at the haulage yard across the road. Labourers came and went, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Jim proffered the telescope to his fellow agent, Colonel John Hardwick, who refused it.
‘They’ll be here,’ John said. ‘Whittock knows what to do.’
Jim fidgeted. They’d been cramped up in the chilly, empty office for nearly an hour, waiting for any sign of their target: Otherside smugglers. Sergeant Whittock, one of John’s group of chosen men, was working incognito with a street gang known to trade in esoteric wares.
‘Well, they’re deuced late, old boy,’ Jim grumbled. ‘I thought working with you would be more… eventful. Given the stories.’
‘Nine tenths of this work is –’
‘Observation,’ Jim finished for him. ‘So you always tell me.’ Jim detected the hint of a smirk upon John’s chiselled face.
‘I thought you were seeing Jane earlier?’ John said.
Jim fidgeted again, this time not entirely due to his numb muscles. ‘Sadly I was otherwise engaged,’ he said.
‘Oh, Jim.’ An admonishment – not for the first time. ‘Do you forget that you are engaged? To her? Jane Pennyforth is a fine woman.’
‘Again, so you always tell me. Honestly, John, you sound like my father. If you love her so much, perhaps you should –’
The door of the office flew open. The two agents spun about to see their compatriot, Lieutenant Bertrand, standing in the doorway red in the face, panting for breath.
‘Change o’ plan, sir,’ Bertrand said, addressing his colonel. ‘Something’s got ’em spooked. They’ve fled north.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Jim said, levering himself to his feet.
John was already at the door. ‘How could this have happened?’ he demanded. ‘We’ve been preparing this for weeks.’
‘Whittock got a message to us, sir,’ Bertrand replied. ‘They got a tip-off we was here.’
John glowered, now looking every inch the man of his reputation, his eyepatch lending him a fearsome demeanour. He barged past Bertrand, leaving Jim and the dark-haired lieutenant to follow.
Half an hour later they were racing along New Oxford Street. The Apollo Lycea driver did not spare the lash, and the black coach-and-pair hurtled around bends, thundering dangerously through streets narrow and broad so that Jim’s teeth jangled in his head. Twice they had caught a glimpse of a distant carriage, driving as recklessly as their own, and twice it had careened through traffic and along side-streets, scattering crowds, to evade them once more. John cursed to himself each time – he was the most fastidious agent on the Order’s payroll, and Jim knew nothing irked the colonel more than plans upset.
‘There, up ahead!’ Bertrand called out. Another carriage hurtled around the next bend.
‘What are they doing?’ Jim asked.
‘Escaping,’ John growled. ‘They have spent almost as long arranging this exchange as we have trying to catch them in the act. Whoever alerted them did it very recently. Now they bolt, probably to the buyer’s new location.’
The carriage rocked onto two wheels as it took the next bend onto Shaftesbury Avenue.
John leaned out of the window, levered his American Winchester rifle, and cracked a round at the fleeing coach. There were screams in the street. The coach zigzagged across the road, slowed almost to a stop, and then took off again.
‘They’ve abandoned the coach,’ John said. ‘The suspects are on foot, heading for the slums. Come on!’
Moments later Jim was pushing through a crowd of well-dressed onlookers, who clamoured about the entrance to an alleyway, as though setting foot in its shadow would give them a foul disease. It was not an unwarranted fear.
John came up beside him, helping to part the crowd, claiming that they were policemen. Up ahead, in the depths of the dark alleyway, Whittock lay stretched out on the cobbles, groaning.
‘Whittock? Are you all right?’ Jim asked.
The sergeant winced as he pulled himself upright, clutching a bloody wound at his thigh. He nodded.
‘Had to give up my cover to slow them down, sir. Shot one – he crawled off over yon.’ Whittock pointed to a back alley where a smear of blood on the frosty ground marked the trail. ‘Two others, gone for the slum. Church Lane.’
‘Come on,’ John barked. ‘If they get through the slums they’ll disappear for good.’
The colonel was already dashing off as Whittock called to Jim.
‘Smart-dressed fella, milksop like – he’s the informant. And our old friend O’Keefe; he’s still got the stash.’
‘Good work, Sergeant,’ Jim called back. Someone had to praise the men, for it was not John’s style once th
e scent was in his nostrils.
Jim and John ploughed through a narrow side-street, leaping over the huddled forms of gin-addled vagrants as they went.
‘Whittock said they still have it,’ Jim panted.
‘Then we won’t find the buyer today,’ John said. ‘But we’ll damned well find this informant.’
They emerged into a squalid court, of such unpleasant aspect and foul aroma that Jim pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose. Just a stone’s throw from bustling promenades, theatres and shops, museums and churches, stood the remnants of the old St Giles rookeries, now islands of slums and high tenements packed with the most desperate, unfortunate and depraved individuals in this part of the city. Displaced, ignored by the smarter folk who walked nearby daily. And harbouring criminals.
John scanned every shadow, every face. Jim knew that Hardwick’s one eye was just as keen as his two. After only a second’s pause, he was off. Jim followed, pistol in hand, the sight of the weapon enough – for now – to persuade the more brazen louts to part the way at the agents’ approach.
With almost preternatural senses, John chose a doorway, launched himself into the dosshouse beyond, and sprang up a set of spiralling, rickety stairs. Jim followed, leaping over shoeless beggars and pools of vomit as he went. At the top of the stairs John ploughed into a gang of rough-looking men, who tried to bar his path only to think better of it. John slapped one of them down, and the rest backed away as Jim arrived, pistol drawn.
‘Which way?’ he demanded.
A fat man pointed laggardly. John took off again, kicking down a door at the end of the corridor, racing through a tiny room where ten women huddled together on the floor for warmth.
Jim’s lungs were fit to burst as they left the room behind them. A quick footfall on wooden stairs up ahead spurred him on. John was already following, and in moments they both emerged onto a flat roof, enclosed by taller tenements all around.
A black trouser-leg and shiny shoe vanished over a chimney stack above them. John climbed.
The Apollonian Case Files Page 1