Burnside finds what he's looking for, uses it to cut the end off of his cigar, then starts to pat his pockets again.
“Yes, sir,” says Tony. What the hell is this, a health seminar?
“Anyway,” says Burnside, finding his lighter, “the reason I wanted this private chat is simply this. I wonder if you and your good lady would like to pop round for dinner some time. Say, Thursday? Meet my own missus, have a chat in informal circumstances. Nice little party, nothing fancy, no need to bring a bottle, ha ha!”
Bloody hell, I'd rather be demoted, thinks Tony.
“That's very kind of you, sir, I'm sure in normal circumstances Rachel and I would love to, but–”
Burnside cuts him off with a wave of his meaty hand.
“No, won't hear of it, I insist. Once you start putting these things off, they never happen, you know?”
That was the general idea, thinks Tony.
“Well,” he says, “I'll have to ask Rachel, of course, and there's the baby-sitting problem.”
“I'm sure you'll solve those administrative issues, Tony,” says Burnside, around his cigar, “a man with your leadership skills.”
You patronizing bastard, thinks Tony, I wish I could afford to just walk out and tell you to shove your job up your well-upholstered Tory arse.
“Of course, sir,” he says, getting up, “I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. Is that everything?”
“Yes, of course, m'boy,” says Burnside through a cloud of blue smoke, “I'll look forward to seeing you Thursday evening at eight. Informal attire, no black tie, eh?”
“Eight o'clock, yes sir,” says Tony, leaving the office and carefully shutting the door.
***
Emily wakes up in the school nurse's office, a white-painted room she's only been in once before, when they all had to report for vaccinations. Miss Newsome and the headmaster, Mr. Glaze, are standing at the foot of her bed. The nurse looms into view holding a thermometer.
“Open wide!”
Emily does as she is told, feels the cold glass tube under next tongue. The nurse looks at her special watch that hangs upside down on the front of her uniform.
“How are you feeling, Emily?” asks Mister Glaze.
Emily tries to speak, but the nurse shushes her, gives the headmaster a sharp look. He retreats a step. Mr. Glaze is a short man who wears big round glasses and has bushy eyebrows. Emily thinks he looks like an embarrassed owl and giggles. Then, seeing the grown-ups' reactions, she puts on her serious face again.
“Had a bit of tumble, dear?” says the nurse, taking the thermometer out. “No sign of any fever, so it's probably not an infection.”
“Did you just slip on the wet floor?” asks Miss Newsome, coming closer.
Emily suddenly wants to grab Miss Newsome and bury herself in the teacher's pink, fluffy cardigan.
No, I'm not a baby!
She nods, not trusting herself to speak.
“Well, I think it might be best if you went home early,” says Mr. Glaze, using his assembly voice. “Miss Newsome? Please write a note to Emily's mother explaining she's taken a tumble.”
“And that she should get that bump on her head looked at, just in case,” puts in the nurse.
“Of course,” says the teacher, “now, you just lie there a minute, Emily, and I'll go and get your things and write the note.”
Miss Newsome and the headmaster leave, and the nurse puts a big, cool hand on Emily's forehead.
“Are you okay, dear? If there's anything going on that's worrying you, I won't snitch. You can tell me and I'll try to help.”
Emily starts to explain about the upside-down star that burned and the Raggedy Men following her, but it comes out all wrong in a jumble of words and she sees the woman's face close up. Then Emily's crying, a cascade of hot tears run down her face. The nurse smiles, takes a paper tissue out of her pocket and dabs at the salt wetness.
“You've got quite an imagination,” says the nurse. “But sometimes we have to remember that there's a big difference between the real world and things we make up. Scary stories can be fun, but they're just stories! Tell you what, while we're waiting for Miss Newsome, would you like a glass of lemonade?”
Emily nods distractedly, half-hearing the woman's words. While the nurse busies herself pouring out lemonade, the little girl looks out of the window at the playground, where the janitor is sweeping up rotting leaves and waste paper. He pushes a broom-load of waste past the Raggedy Men, who pay him no attention. They carry on staring back at Emily, the autumn wind lifting strands of hair from their yellow-brown skulls.
It's not a story, she thinks. Or if it is, it's a real story, and I'm in it. I hope it has a happy ending. The ones that start out scary usually do.
She tries to wrap herself around that last idea.
Miss Newsome returns with Emily's satchel and duffel coat, and a worried frown.
“I've just remembered,” says the teacher, “Emily's mother won't be at home. She works full-time, apparently.”
The two women look at the little girl, exchange a glance Emily has seen before but doesn't fully understand.
“Well, I suppose that's her privilege,” says the nurse in an even voice. “And she is American, after all. One must make allowances. I suppose we have a contact number for her?”
“Yes,” replies Miss Newsome, “I've left a message. If she doesn't get back to us, I'll call her father.”
The nurse lowers her voice but Emily can still hear her. “A bit much to expect a father to leave work to pick up a child. What's the world coming to?”
Emily wonders what the world is coming to as well. Looking out of the window she sees that the Raggedy Men have moved closer. She can see through bits of them now. They are looking at her. She can't decide if they're grinning or if they look like that because they have no lips.
***
They're getting dressed when a knock comes at the door of the apartment. The pattern is right, two then pause then three, and Charlotte looks at Bryce questioningly.
“I never said you were my only ally,” he says under his breath, then more loudly, “Just a minute!”
When they're both decent, he lets in a small, gray-haired woman in a tweed jacket and skirt, sensible shoes. Charlotte guesses 'academic' before Bryce can introduce Professor Jane Pardoe of the British Museum Archaeology Department.
“Pleased to meet you, and do call me Jane,” says the newcomer, pumping Charlotte's hand vigorously. “The colonel has told me a lot about you. Tricky business, wouldn't like to do it myself, but somebody has to, eh?”
Again Charlotte looks at Bryce, this time in anger. He let me think I was the only one, his only friend and ally.
Bryce shows no sign of receiving her signal, gestures Jane Pardoe to a chair. “The professor has been very helpful in researching the possible origins and likely strategy of the Order of Eschaton,” he says, sitting down on the bed. “Charlotte has something to tell you, and a drawing she feels may be significant.”
He looks up at Charlotte, who pulls up the other chair and tells Jane about the Beaumont's encounters with the Sentinels. The older woman's smile fades, but her interested expression remains.
“So, they're out and about again, are they?” says Pardoe. “I thought we'd seen the last of them at Duncaster back in 1940, eh, colonel? That was a strange business, forced me to revise my views on a lot of things. You too, colonel, I imagine?”
Bryce gives a slight nod.
“Bear in mind that we only know about the Sentinels at second hand, via Rachel Rubin's encounters with them,” he says. “They are sworn to defend the realm of England, which we all took to mean guarding the sacred crown buried on the East Anglian coast. However, it seems now they are roaming more widely, and their presence in London at this time can hardly be a coincidence.”
Charlotte looks from one to the other, still feeling excluded.
“This Order of Eschaton,” she says, “you still have no idea who's in
it or where it's based?”
Pardoe rummages in a shoulder bag, takes out a handwritten sheet of foolscap paper.
“I have here a list of people known to have worked with or been otherwise linked to the man you knew as Bill Rolt,” she says, handing it to Bryce. “I think cross-referencing these names with people in positions of authority might help narrow the field. Perhaps even provide a location. There are quite a few eyebrow-raisers, I must say!”
As Bryce scans the list Charlotte tries not to think about Bill Rolt, but painful memories can't be pushed away.
He said he loved me, then nearly killed me, knocking me down almost as an afterthought, simply because I got in his way. Not the first man to use me, just the most dangerous, she thinks.
She looks over at Bryce, absorbed in fresh data, oblivious to her existence.
“But what are they trying to do?” she asks too loudly, causing the others to look at her in surprise.
“Whatever it is, we can assume it involves an accumulation of occult power,” replies Pardoe. “It seems something similar was attempted by this Rolt person at Furniss Manor, yes? Well, it might well be the same kind of thing but on a much grander scale. And therefore much deadlier.”
“Might this be a clue to it, somehow?” she asks, handing Maria's drawing to the academic. Pardoe takes it and puts on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles to study it.
“Or is it merely the work of a lunatic with an occult obsession?” asks Bryce, taking out a cigarette.
“No, I don't think so!” replies Pardoe. “I think the woman does have some sort of psychic ability, clairvoyance, or call it what you will. The fact that her experience at Furniss left her impaired in one way doesn't necessarily make her unreliable, merely hard to understand. The pentacle symbol is suggestive, as are the stick figures. And that symbol in the middle, almost a trademark of some kind; I'm sure I've seen it somewhere. Most annoying thing! It'll probably come to me in the bath this evening when I've had a couple of gins!”
Charlotte can't help smiling at the professor's innocent enthusiasm, even as she wonders if any of them will survive this new clash with almost incomprehensible forces of evil.
“I must be getting to work,” she says, standing up, “keep the drawing, Jane, I'm sure it's a lot more use to you. Goodbye, Bryce, I'll see you when you summon me, I suppose.”
Bryce doesn't get up to see her out. As she pauses outside the door, Charlotte hears Jane Pardoe's voice rising and falling.
Offering theories on Maria's vision, she thinks, with a touch of bitterness. So Bryce has found himself a more useful ally. Albeit one who's probably not so accommodating in other ways.
When she leaves the run-down building, the group of teenagers opposite start wolf-whistling and cat-calling again. This time Charlotte gets into her car, starts the engine, looks the leader in the eye and gives him an emphatic two-finger salute before driving off.
“And next time, I'll give you a kick in the balls, sunshine,” she snarls at the rear-view mirror, before blaring her horn at a taxi that tries to pull out in front of her.
***
Rachel jumps out of a taxi, waves a pound note, tells the driver to wait if he wants it, and runs into Coal Hill School. As she enters the yard, she sees Miss Newsome, a teacher she gets along with, waiting with Emily on the steps of the main entrance. Rachel slows down to a brisk walk and decides not to try and scoop her daughter up in her arms.
She's getting a bit big for that anyway, she thinks.
After preliminary greetings, Miss Newsome explains that Emily has 'taken a bit of a tumble' and stresses that children are warned to walk, never run.
Rachel bridles at the implication that her child might be to blame for anything, but smiles and says, “Yeah, she's a little firecracker, lots of energy.”
She hunkers down to talk to Emily, who's smiling up at her but is pale and seems preoccupied.
“How are you honey? Did you bump your head?”
“Yes, but it's only a small bump,” the child replies. “I'm all right, really.”
Rachel kisses her daughter on the forehead.
“Yeah, I'm sure you are, too! Now, thank Miss Newsome, and we can get a taxi home. You like taxis, right?”
“Yes!” shouts Emily, putting on her backpack. “Thank you Miss Newsome, I'll be back tomorrow and I promise I'll learn all the kings and queens!”
In the taxi ride home, Emily sits on Rachel's knee so she can peer at traffic and passersby, and point at amusing dogs.
She loves animals, she really wants a puppy or maybe a kitten, thinks Rachel. And maybe she deserves one. She's a good kid in a bad world.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says, “you still haven't told me what you want for your birthday?”
“Cake!” replies Emily without a moment's hesitation. The cab driver joins in Rachel's laughter.
“Everybody gets a birthday cake, silly! What do you want for a present?”
Emily sits musing, her face turned away as she scans the street.
“There must be something,” says Rachel, encouragingly. “A new doll, perhaps?”
The pig-tailed head shakes.
“New dress?”
Another shake.
“So what do you want then, honey?” asks Rachel. “Maybe a puppy? Or a cute little kitty?”
Emily turns to look up into Rachel's face.
“I just want the Raggedy Men to go away. I didn't mind them at first, but they frightened me a lot this morning when I was already scared by the bright star and all the screaming people.”
Rachel looks to see if the driver is still listening, but she's distracted by three familiar gaunt figures standing on the corner of the street that they are turning onto. The street, too, is familiar. It's Hobb's Lane, Rachel's street.
Chapter 6: A Kind of Madness
“I hope I didn't offend the young lady?” asks Professor Pardoe, once again rummaging in her bag.
“She's under a lot of pressure, one way or another,” says Bryce, as he goes to get another slug of whiskey. “You're sure I can't tempt you?”
“Oh, no, not before midday, thank you, colonel!”
Pardoe finds another sheaf of crumpled papers, and starts to smooth them out on the bed.
God, thinks Bryce, I'm glad her mind is a bit better organized than her bag.
“So, any promising findings?” asks Bryce, re-corking the bottle and leaning against the dressing table.
“Apart from my provisional list of members,” she replies, “I've established – to my satisfaction – that the Order of Eschaton was not mentioned by anyone writing on occult matters until quite recently. It's certainly not a descendant of the famous Order of the Golden Dawn, or any of its splinter groups. Nor is there any apparent link to Aleister Crowley, W.B. Yeats, or the Theosophists, for that matter. So we may safely conclude that it's probably not linked to mainstream occultism or fashionable mysticism of any kind.”
“You're telling me what you don't know, professor, and too much of what is irrelevant!” says Bryce, fingering his scar. “This is not a seminar, it's a war we're fighting to save this city, perhaps even the world! What do you know?”
“I am duly chastened, colonel,” says Pardoe, without showing any sign of it. She picks up a Xeroxed sheet of what looks like a page of newsprint. “Well, one obscure author wrote a book, back in the thirties, claiming that a group called the 'Eschatonic Order' were planning to destroy the world. Classic conspiracy theory stuff, apparently, and the writer used a pen-name. The book is long out of print, according to the British Library catalogue, so all I have is this review from a provincial newspaper. Quite negative in tone, I might add.”
“The book?” asks Bryce.
“The review,” Jane explains. “Very scathing, dismisses the whole idea out of hand, pours scorn on the writer's scholarship, not to mention the poor chap's prose style.”
Bryce walks over, reaches out, and takes the sheet.
“Manners cost nothing, colonel!�
� rebukes the professor.
“The reviewer's name isn't given, just the initials,” he says, skimming to the end.
“Standard form, I believe,” she says. “Perhaps as a way of avoiding unpleasantness for reviews with such a negative tone.”
“But the initials are B.R.,” Bryce points out. “And that tells me something.”
Jane furrows her brow.
“I'm afraid I don't see the significance.”
“A man using the name of Bill Rolt,” says Bryce, “boasted he was a member of the Order of Eschaton. He was killed in Northumberland in the winter of 1945, during bizarre events that I arrived just in time to witness. Rolt was active in psychical research for years, and definitely wrote reviews for the press on occult subjects.”
“Ah, so you think if we seek out this author we could find out more?” asks Jane.
“No, I think the author's probably long dead because he drew attention to himself,” says Bryce flatly. “So it's a literal dead-end. Anything else?”
Now the academic does look a little crestfallen, but she picks up another sheet and peers at it through her spectacles, then offers it to him.
“Well, there is this rather odd bit of poetry, to use the term loosely, which a colleague of mine drew my attention to. It dates back to the mid-seventeenth century, a wild time in so many ways, very prolific of pamphlets predicting the apocalypse and so forth.”
Bryce takes the sheet and reads the hand-written transcript. The title is not promising, A Prophesie of Armageddon, As Vouchsafed To Mistress Marjorie Bogle, A Wise and Godly Woman of Norfolke in the Year of Our Lorde Sixteen-Hundred and Forty-Five.
“Why can't people just say what they want to say in plain English, then shut up?” he mutters, scanning the verses that follow.
Se'en Years since Beaste of Holy Rome did falle
Miasma on the Capital descendes
The Ayre itself is Traitor to Men Alle
The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3) Page 7