Evadne whirled. She too cried out when Leetha stepped from behind the rose – she was holding the hand of a small child.
‘We took the children away,’ Leetha explained. She winced and shielded her face from the flames. ‘We like fire, but sometimes we like it too much.’
‘You lit the fire?’ Kingsley said. More of Leetha’s people crept out from the garden. They were shepherding five other very bewildered children. Kingsley was puzzled as to how he hadn’t seen them. There wasn’t enough cover. Had he simply not noticed them, bound up in Evadne’s grief as he was?
‘Hiding is something we can do, so we did,’ Leetha said. ‘We heard the magic below the ground. We thought it was a chance for us to run away.’
Kingsley put aside questions of how far they could have run. Evadne was crouching and talking in a low voice to the children, two boys and four girls. None of them could have been older than five. They were dazed. They stared at the flames, Leetha’s people and at the world in general, almost as if they weren’t sure it were all real. Kingsley wondered how they would remember this, if at all. A dream? A story?
Leetha nudged him. ‘Your book, the one you asked us to find? You did not say there were two of them.’
She held out a pair of small volumes bound in scarred brown leather. Kingsley’s heart lurched. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We found them, we hid them, we bring them to you as you wanted.’ She looked at him. ‘They must be precious.’
‘I –’ Kingsley’s words tripped over each other. ‘I thank you,’ he said.
He wondered what, exactly, Leetha had found. Had his father written another volume? If so, why did the Immortals have it?
The first book bore the words stamped into the leather, the words he’d seen a hundred times in his memory: ‘Major G Sanderson.’ The other book though . . .
He shuffled the two so the mystery volume was on top. It had had a hard life, to judge from the stains and the scratches in the leather. The cover was worn, the title hard to read. He riffled through the pages, and raised an eyebrow when he saw that it wasn’t a printed book – it too was handwritten.
Then he returned to the cover and peered at the letters stamped in the leather. The world spun around him.
The Diary of Mrs Greville Sanderson While in India.
It was his mother’s journal.
He had no idea how long he stood there. It might have been a hundred years, it might have been a geologic age or two. He was only brought out of his reverie by Leetha’s tugging on his sleeve. She pointed at the word ‘Sanderson’. ‘They both had this so we took them both,’ she said.
‘You did the right thing,’ Kingsley reassured her.
Leetha gazed at Evadne, who was assuring the children that she’d take them home. ‘We too, want to go home,’ Leetha said to him. ‘Our bargain.’
He tucked the journals in a pocket. ‘The East Indies?’
A motor car had turned off the road, and Kingsley wondered if it was the one he’d seen earlier. It was roaring up the lane towards the farmhouse and the half dozen motor cars that Kingsley assumed had brought Christabel’s force. The shape suggested it was a Daimler, like the others.
‘Java.’ Leetha shrugged. ‘Flores. It means nothing to us.’
Java? Kingsley looked back to see the Trojans had reached the farmhouse and were milling about with Christabel and her people. The black Daimler was close.
‘Can you wait here?’ he said to Leetha. He took Evadne’s hand and they hurried to where Dr Ward and Mrs Winter had emerged from the farmhouse, just as the black Daimler pulled up. The door banged open and Colonel Lucius Congreve-Knollys leaped out of the passenger side. His hat flew off with the force of his exit, but he didn’t pay it any attention. ‘Ah, Selene!’ he cried. ‘Are you all right?’
Mrs Winter stiffened. ‘You’ve never cared if I’m all right or not, Lucius, but I’m perfectly well thanks to Malcolm and his young people.’
‘Lucius Congreve-Knollys,’ Dr Ward growled, ‘still bumbling about?’
‘Hello Malcolm,’ said Congreve-Knollys. ‘Just doing my job, that’s all.’
Buchanan emerged from the motor car, holding his hat on. He spied Christabel. ‘Hughes. What’s going on here?’
‘We have the Immortals, sir, and Gompers.’
Congreve-Knollys gave a yelp of triumph. ‘I assume that means their plans have been disrupted? Wonderful!’
‘You have fine people working for you,’ Kingsley pointed out. ‘I hope they’ll receive appropriate recognition.’
‘Eh? Oh, of course, of course.’
‘So it’s all gone well despite you, Lucius,’ Dr Ward said. ‘You’re a lucky fellow, as ever.’
Congreve-Knollys laughed, but Kingsley thought it as shaky as a gingerbread tower. ‘I’ll get you a nice new set of garden tools, Malcolm,’ Congreve-Knollys said. ‘You’ve been raking over the past for so long I’m sure at least one of them is worn out.’
‘And how’s your record-keeping going, Lucius? I imagine any organisation run by you wouldn’t know what it’s done, or doing, or about to do.’
‘I have people for that,’ Congreve-Knollys said airily. ‘Still working alone, are you Malcolm? Solo, unhindered, unique? Natura il fece, e poi ruppe la stampa?’
While his father and the head of the Agency for Demimonde affairs continued their spat, Kingsley caught the eye of Troilus, who was enjoying the verbal stoush. The Trojan waved him over. ‘They don’t half know a lot of words,’ Troilus said. ‘Someone should be writing this down.’
With a shake of his head, Congreve-Knollys turned and strolled off, leaving a fuming Dr Ward behind. Troilus looked disappointed.
‘On another matter entirely,’ Kingsley said to him, ‘do you remember your notion of a south seas journey?’
‘It’s a notion that’s firmed up a fair bit since we’ve been here,’ Troilus said. ‘We think it might be a good time to leave this part of the world, things being how they are.’
‘D’you feel like taking a slight detour along the way? With some very special passengers?’
‘Where would you be thinking of?’
‘Java.’
Kingsley had just reached Evadne, who had handed the children to overjoyed villagers – who had indeed been attracted to the farm by the fire – when Congreve-Knollys approached, smiling, with Buchanan at his side. ‘Well, this has worked out splendidly, hasn’t it?’
‘I take that as a special thankyou,’ Evadne said. ‘We’re happy to have done your work for you.’
Dr Ward strode up, with his new wife on his arm. Congreve-Knollys beamed at Evadne. ‘I can’t let you take all the credit, Miss Stephens. I must humbly insist on a portion of it belonging to me.’
‘To you, CK?’ Dr Ward said. ‘What did you do? Hold a cocktail party to tell people you were hot on the trail of the Immortals?’
Congreve-Knollys shook his head. ‘I love it when you try to joke, Malcolm. It makes the rest of us look much funnier.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When a leader has few resources, it’s a test of that leader’s capabilities, his capacity for innovation and unorthodox methods.’
‘He’s talking about himself, my dear,’ Dr Ward said to his wife. ‘I’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t so ludicrous.’
Congreve-Knollys ignored him. ‘I knew that the Agency couldn’t hope to find the Immortals, let alone defeat them. So I had to enlist those who could.’
Evadne shrugged. ‘As I said, we were happy to help.’
‘But you may not have been as happy if you hadn’t been confronted by the re-emergence of the Immortals in a rather dramatic way. And, just in case you needed anything to convince you, if the Immortals had a highly desirable item of yours, one that you’d been looking for, one that meant a great deal to a young man who could be useful in confronting the Immortals.’
‘You?’ Kingsley stared. ‘The journal?’
Congreve-Knollys turned his hands over. ‘Let’s just say that I still had en
ough friends in India to procure this journal and send it to you as if it were coming from that known confederate of the Immortals, Jabez Soames. Then it was a simple matter of letting it be known in the Demimonde when it had landed in your possession. Arranging things so that the greatest foe of the Immortals was pitted against the Immortals was quite a brainwave, I think.’
‘That sort of organisation from you? I don’t believe it,’ Dr Ward said flatly.
‘It’s only a letter or two, dear,’ his wife said. ‘Getting other people to do his work for him.’
‘I think they call it “delegation” these days,’ Congreve-Knollys said. ‘A tasty word. I like it.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I can’t take all the credit. It was Buchanan here who suggested that Mrs Winter – sorry, Mrs Ward – could be a useful element in this strategy.’
Congreve-Knollys, for the first time since arriving at Mallowside Farm, looked uncomfortable. ‘Since this matter of the Immortals was looking pretty dire, I wanted to make sure that my scheme was foolproof. I remembered how old Malcolm had been sweet on you, Selene, so I assisted your escape, then expedited your journey to England so you could meet up with him again. I reasoned that the Immortals would grab you again and give more reason for Miss Stephens to rage against them, since she and your son are such a pair. And, yes, well, that part of the plan didn’t quite work out as I’d hoped, but one can’t have everything. The things one has to do, eh? Especially where the safety of the realm is concerned.’
Kingsley was astounded, and from the faces of those about him, so were Evadne, Dr Ward and Mrs Winter.
‘You fool,’ Kingsley said. His hands had curled into fists. ‘Evadne – and I – need no extra spur to rid the world of the Immortals. Your silly plotting simply endangered everyone.’
Dr Ward had adopted a rigid calm. ‘And, Lucius, you actually put into the Immortals’ hands the very thing they needed to complete another plan to dominate the world.’
Congreve-Knollys blinked. He started to speak, but he faltered and stopped. He looked decidedly sick.
Dr Ward pressed on: ‘You really didn’t think this through, did you, Lucius? Not all the way. Shoddy stuff, as was always your wont. It wasn’t your planning that brought about success today, it was the efforts of these young people.’
‘And a fair share of luck,’ Mrs Winter said. She glared at Congreve-Knollys.
Kingsley noticed that Christabel and a few of her fellow operatives had gathered. She looked unsurprised at the turning of affairs.
Congreve-Knollys rubbed his forehead. ‘You don’t understand how difficult it’s been, trying to protect the country while our budget grew smaller and smaller. Desperate times, all round.’ He drew himself up. ‘I may be incompetent, but I’m no fool. I can see that my time at the Agency is done, and I won’t stand in the way when the perfect head of the department is at hand.’
Dr Ward frowned suspiciously. ‘What are you on about, Lucius?’
‘Now that the country is safe from the Immortals, I’m resigning. And I’ll recommend that you, Malcolm, are appointed head of the Agency for Demimonde Affairs.’
Before anyone could respond, Congreve-Knollys turned on his heel and, after gesturing to Buchanan, strode to the Daimler and roared off.
‘Typical Congreve-Knollys,’ Dr Ward fumed. ‘Move on and leave a mess behind for someone else to clean up.’
‘He might be right.’ Mrs Winter touched the jewel in the side of her nose. ‘You might just be the man for the job.’
‘You think so, m’dear?’
‘I know of no-one better.’
‘Do you think Congreve-Knollys will get his knighthood?’ Kingsley asked Evadne.
‘Almost certainly.’
Kingsley took a deep breath of smoky air. Troilus, Lavinia and their people were introducing themselves to Leetha and hers. Dr Ward peered in their direction, acutely curious. When his new wife saw this, she dragged him over to meet the tiny strangers.
Christabel approached.
‘What now?’ Kingsley asked her.
‘We’ll take the Immortals and Gompers to Agency HQ. We’ll bring Gompers’s underlings to the Agency for questioning as well. We’ll cordon off this place to keep the villagers away. We’ll take photographs, pick over the ruins and see what we can discover. Then I imagine another fire will break out. Even bigger this time, with nothing left at all. And you?’
‘Oh, a theatrical revival – in a personal sense – is high on my list.’
Evadne nodded towards Dr Ward and Mrs Winter. ‘But first, we have some newlyweds to celebrate,’ she said.
FORTY-ONE
‘Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . .’
Kingsley ignored Mr Kipling’s chanting and concentrated on wrenching the arms of the straitjacket over his head – without setting the rope tied around his ankles swinging too much. The Jaws of Death would crash shut at the slightest touch, so his struggles had to be contained to a narrow sphere of endeavour.
‘Twenty-six, twenty-seven – get ready, Evadne – twenty-nine, thirty, now!’
Evadne, all aspangle in green sequins, flung her sabre. It took all her juggler’s finesse to make the blade fly straight and true, but it sliced the rope perfectly before thudding into the rafter.
Kingsley was ready, thanks to Mr Kipling’s adroit use of the stopwatch. An instant before the sabre struck, he ripped off the straitjacket. Then, still upside down, he swung his arms to gain momentum. Remembering Evadne’s tumbling instructions, he tucked in his chin and somersaulted through the air. He landed in front of the Jaws of Death on one knee, with his arms outstretched triumphantly. Then he dropped his left hand in time for Evadne to cartwheel in and grasp it as the trap crashed shut.
Together, they bowed while the workshop echoed to Mr Kipling’s applause.
‘Outstanding!’ he cried. ‘Magnificent! Your best yet!’
Kingsley was breathing hard, but not panting. He glanced at Evadne. She was unruffled. ‘Evadne?’
‘A fine display of singlemindedness and showmanship. Just what we need.’
Kipling stowed his stopwatch in the pocket of his surpassingly tweedy Norfolk jacket. ‘And your performance begins next week? You’ll be a sensation!’
Kingsley bowed again. ‘We’re aiming to be the toast of Edinburgh.’
‘And to move up from the bottom of the bill,’ Evadne said. She threw Kingsley a towel. ‘I won’t abide being below a man with a monkey doll.’
‘Jolly Jimbo is the best primate ventriloquist in the land.’ Kingsley wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘He can make that monkey dummy talk while he’s eating a banana.’
Evadne shuddered. ‘Monkeys are human enough without talking.’
It was Evadne’s mysterious friend Lady Aglaia who had come to the rescue of the Extraordinaires. A letter was waiting for them after their interminable Agency debriefing. Lady Aglaia had learned of a two-week engagement at the bottom of the bill at the Edinburgh Empire Palace. Apparently, she’d been chatting with Oswald Stoll, the owner of the Stoll circuit and one thing led to another. He had a word with Edward Moss and, with four shows a day to fill, he found a spot for them in Edinburgh. A small beginning, it was. Kingsley was grateful – but he had an inkling that, being so low on the bill, the Extraordinaires and the Jaws of Death were bound to dazzle the Edinburgh crowd.
Kipling clapped his hands together and rubbed them. ‘And now, it’s off to the Ritz for afternoon tea, as planned.’
Evadne stopped on the way to change. ‘Not the Savoy?’
‘I thought we’d try this newish place. People say it’s splendid.’
‘I’m sure it shall be,’ Evadne said. ‘And thank you, Mr Kipling, for organising this celebration.’
The writer shook his head. ‘No, I’m the one who should be doing the thanking. I’ve been part of an adventure, thanks to you and Kingsley.’ He chuckled. ‘While exhilarating, the last few weeks have reassured me that I’m much better at writing about adventures than
participating in them.’
The fortnight since the capture of the Immortals had been a hectic resumption of normal life. As well as organising a huge bunch of flowers for Lavinia, Kingsley had thrown himself into rehearsing and – inspired by the work they’d put in on their bogus Ficino Institute – he’d cleared out the basement of the workshop and divided it into living quarters. It had been Evadne’s suggestion to use Japanese paper walls and even though Kingsley had been sceptical, he had to admit that the result was extremely stylish – and easy to construct.
The bathroom was taking a little longer to install, even with help from some of Finny’s tradesmen. Partly it was the normal complexities of plumbing and drainage, but proceedings had hit a snag after he’d put his foot down when white tiles had been suggested to finish the walls and floor. After the confrontation in the underground lair of the Immortals, he had an aversion to white ceramics.
Evadne and he went to their separate rooms. While Kingsley was searching for a clean tie, he stopped, looked around, and had one of his many moments of wonder.
This is astonishing, he thought, this life we’re shaping for ourselves.
A young woman and young man sharing living facilities was an extremely Bohemian arrangement, but since Evadne hadn’t spent a moment worrying about the matter, Kingsley was doing his best not to. It was economical, for one thing, as Evadne had pointed out. Kingsley was able to move out of his Pimlico rooms, thereby saving money. It was practical, too, as he saved time moving between rehearsing and home.
Kingsley had noted that Evadne hadn’t closed down her retreat under the White City, but he decided raising such would be poor form, mostly because Evadne would have a very good reason for keeping it. Probably because of the heavy industrial facilities she had there. Or the view. Or the prestigious underground address.
One drawback was that he needed to grow accustomed to having myrmidons trundle around. He had, to the extent that he didn’t leap into the air and cry out whenever one hove into view any more. He thought it a solid improvement.
As for more delicate matters, Kingsley was uncertain about the state of affairs. On the whole, he was much gladder to be around Evadne than not, and she seemed to reciprocate. Without discussing anything at all, apart from stage matters and various forms of armed and unarmed combat, they’d established a new and quite marvellous understanding. They were the Extraordinaires. They were also Evadne and Kingsley.
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