“A secret society?” asks Bryce.
“No, a very public body,” Jane says, handing over a handwritten list. “When I realized that the board controlling the organization has thirteen members, it became clear.”
Bryce scans the paper, looks up with raised eyebrows.
Well, she thinks, I've seen him doubtful and now I've seen him surprised.
“You're sure about this?” he asks. “It seems far too simple.”
“Sometimes the obvious is the thing one overlooks,” she counters. “After all, this Order of yours has to involve important people, in different walks of life, but all coming together regularly to plan and confer. That narrows it down a lot, doesn't it?”
“It does indeed,” murmurs Bryce. “And now we know where it will happen.”
“Sorry?” asks Jane. “Where what will happen?”
“I really must go! Thanks, I hope I never have occasion to bother you again. Alive or dead.”
And before she could respond with so much as an expletive he was gone, taking her list and Maria's picture with him.
“Well, some people,” she said to the open door. “To think he's supposed to be the good guy in all this.”
There's a crash of breaking pottery, then, and running feet in the basement corridor. Jane steps out of her office and almost collides with one of her students. He's breathing heavily from the unaccustomed exertion in the impure air.
“Careful, Philip, you could have done us both a mischief!”
“I'm sorry professor!” gasps the young man, “I just had a terrible shock.”
Jane looks past him along the dim-lit corridor to see something appear round the corner. It looks like a man, or what's left of one after much of its flesh has been eaten away. What remains is blotched with white.
“You've been researching that leper colony, Philip, is that right?” asks Jane.
The student nods, not daring to look round. More ghosts appear, and begin to moan through lipless mouths as they shamble forward.
“Come on,” says Jane, “Let's get upstairs among some period that's relatively safe, like the Romans.”
Chapter 10: Preparations
Maria can't escape the ghosts of the Victorian madhouse that stood where Camden Hill Hospital is today. Strapped to her little cot in the padded room, she screams and writhes as the phantoms of patients long dead come to her with threats, promises, and demands. Through the long night, the medium feels their pain, compounded by cruelty and neglect. At first she thinks the screamers are the worst, then the children, but after nearly nine hours all such distinctions blur. Soon she can't tell what is real, what is ghostly, and what exists merely as a symptom of her tormented mind. Deprived of sleep, tormented by waking nightmares, she is exhausted and delirious when Charlotte arrives.
At first, Maria thinks Charlotte's voice is one of her hallucinations. A benevolent delusion, she decides, of course I would imagine a friend.
Even when the burly male nurse shows Charlotte into the room, Maria does not quite believe her visitor is real. Or at least, no more real than the previous inmate hanging in the corner, her legs kicking, behind the cork-lined door. Maria almost speaks to the dead lunatic, decides against it.
What good would it do? There are too many to help, their sufferings are so great.
“How long has she been like this?” asks Charlotte, in a hushed voice.
Ah, she has never seen madness like mine, thinks Maria, with a perverse hint of pride. What must I look like? If only I could see myself!
“Since last night, just after supper,” replies the nurse. “She started going on about numbers, then got uncontrollable.”
“Can I spend some time alone with her?”
The nurse looks dubious until Charlotte takes a banknote out of her purse, quickly hands it to him. He puts the money into his back pocket, says “Ten minutes, tops,” and shuts the woman in.
Aha, Maria thinks, so even these English are corrupt sometimes. Well, it is human nature.
Charlotte is standing, frozen in place, staring at the hanging woman.
“She can't hurt you,” says Maria, encouragingly. “Come, we have little time. So little time!”
Charlotte edges around the padded wall, keeping as far away from the ghost as possible, then crouches by Maria's cot.
“A mirror!” says Maria, loudly.
This startles Charlotte, as Maria intended, and she looks at the living patient again.
“What? I don't understand.”
“No,” Maria shakes her head, “I am not being mystical; I want an actual mirror! Hold it up, show me what I look like.”
After a moment's hesitation, Charlotte obliges, taking out a small vanity compact and putting the mirror six inches in front of Maria's face. The small image Maria sees is that of a gaunt, staring-eyed woman with cropped, graying hair. The fashionable medium, the toast of London society a mere seven years ago, is long gone.
What remains is a husk, a shell, she thinks. A madwoman who is not quite a ghost.
“Enough,” she says, turning her head away. “You came for the message, yes? For the vision?”
“If there is one,” says Charlotte, again glancing at the hanging ghost.
“Ignore her! Ignore them all, they are merely, how do you say, scarecrows? Sent to frighten, make this smog worse. But they are not the true menace.”
There's the sound of metal sliding on metal and the peephole in the door opens, a pair of eyes appears, then the aperture closes.
“Always spying!” hisses Maria. “Closer, let me whisper. I will not bite. Not quite so far gone, not yet.”
Charlotte leans close to Maria, who gabbles of the Thirteen, the One, the Three who watch. Maria struggles to keep her words half-sane, pushes aside visions of blazing chaos that threaten to overwhelm what's left of her sanity. It is not easy.
“The Star will open the way, but only the One can keep the way open!” the medium insists. “Do not let the Thirteen get her! But keep the Three at bay!”
“Do you know times, places, Maria? Can you be more specific?” asks Charlotte.
Maria shakes her head wildly.
“I cannot see what needs to be seen, because I see too much!” she shouts.
Charlotte takes the woman's hand, but as she does so, the door opens and the nurse looks in.
“Doctor making an early inspection. Better go, miss. If he finds you here now, you'll be barred. I can hide you in the janitor's cupboard till he's gone.”
Maria squeezes Charlotte's fingers for a moment.
“She is the power they need, she is the power they fear!”
Then the door is closed and Maria is left to her ghosts and her madness.
***
Sir Winston Churchill, having slept for a few fitful hours between midnight and what passes for dawn, wheezes as he lumbers downstairs in his pajamas and dressing gown. As he descends, he passes the portraits of various predecessors. Not for the first time he takes pleasure in the fact that most of the po-faced characters pictured were less distinguished than himself. And what a lot of them there were.
Number 10 Downing Street is a fine historic building, he muses, but a bloody awful place to live. Like residing in some horrid combination of a badly-run hotel and a provincial art gallery.
A young woman in a maid's uniform appears, curtsies nervously, says good morning. Churchill growls a reply then waves her away.
Well, he thinks, they know I'm up. Soon there will be lots of highly-paid civil servants fussing around me like silly women at a sickbed.
Churchill speeds up to a slightly faster lumber and goes into his study, shuts the door, then goes to his desk. He needs to get a number, his memory for minor facts not being what it was.
So many things delay me nowadays, he thinks. Old age is just an endless series of minor obstructions leading to the one big obstruction right at the end.
There's a timid knock at the study door and a voice says something about breakfast.
That should hold 'em for a few minutes at least.
He finds the number, dials an outside line. For half a minute, he thinks nobody will answer, then he hears the receiver lifted and a sleepy voice asking, “Who is it?”
“It's Winston, Jim. Yes, I know it's still early, but since I run the bloody country I can ring who I like when I like! I need a favor. Well, two. One is simply to get one of your planes up above the city and take some pictures. Yes, I want to see what this blanket of filth looks like from on high. Let the dog see the rabbit! No buts, just do it as soon as you can!”
Churchill lowers his voice.
“And another thing, Jim. Put out feelers, ask the other service chiefs what's going on. We've supposedly ordered the army in to help evacuate vulnerable patients to the countryside but I'm getting the runaround, nobody will tell me if troops have even been mobilized. Yes, I know your lot wouldn't be involved, that's the point! If I consult the army I need to go through proper channels, and that's the ideal way to keep me in the dark. No, I don't know for sure. But it's not just the smog that stinks around here.”
The study door opens, now, and Garmouth enters without knocking.
“Got to go, dear,” says Churchill in a loud, cheerful voice. “Yes, duty calls! Hugs and kisses to Binky and the little ones! And tell Rover I said woof!”
Churchill puts down the phone, looks up at his chief official.
“Family matters, prime minister?” asks Garmouth.
“Indeed!” replies Churchill. “One must keep up with one's younger relations. That was a second cousin. It's her birthday.”
“Ah,” says Garmouth. “Birthdays are always so important to the young.”
“Glad you popped in, anyway,” Churchill goes on. “It's about these masks.”
“Masks, prime minister?” Garmouth raises a quizzical eyebrow.
“The smog masks you assured me had been properly tested,” replies Churchill testily. “I've heard quite a few people say they're bloody useless! People are still keeling over, even dying in the streets, despite using the things!”
“I think you'll find,” says Garmouth silkily, “that there is a psychosomatic element to these things. One goes out into the smog, one's eyes begin streaming with the acidic vapor, the mask is constricting, there's an element of panic, heightened respiration, faster heartbeat. That sort of thing.”
Churchill stares at the bureaucrat.
“A very compelling explanation, Garmouth. Almost as if you'd carefully rehearsed it for just such an occasion as this.”
“One aims to be prepared, prime minister. Shall I tell them you're ready for breakfast, now?”
Churchill gives his usual affirmative grunt, and Garmouth leaves as smoothly as he arrived.
Be prepared, indeed, thinks the prime minister. Somehow I don't think you were ever a Boy Scout, you slimy little bugger!
Chartwell has somehow insinuated himself into the study and leaps onto Churchill's lap. The politician begins scratching the cat between the ears.
“Oh, you're up as well, are you? That's good. At least I can be sure you're not lying to me. So that's a grand total of one. Yes, two old reprobates together! I'll see if I can get you a bit of fish or chicken later.”
Chartwell suddenly stiffens, ginger fur standing on end, tail upright like a brush. The effect is almost comical. Churchill looks up, sees someone standing by the bookcase, apparently admiring the Nobel medal displayed there. Churchill recognizes the man.
Only British prime minister to be assassinated, he thinks.
“Spencer Perceval,” he rumbles. “Quite a distinctive profile you have, sir, not to mention the Georgian attire.”
The ghost turns to look at his successor, revealing the hole in his velvet coat where a pistol bullet entered in 1812.
“Who are you, sir?” asks Perceval. “I am His Majesty's First Minister and this is my residence.”
“My sincerest condolences on your fatal injury, sir,” says Churchill, “and I'm sure you're entitled to be unhappy about it. But you must surely concede that I am in residence now, so do us both a favor and get lost!”
Chartwell is on his feet, now, hissing and spitting at the phantom.
“Good job you saw him first, lad,” mutters Churchill to the spooked cat. “Otherwise I'd have to admit myself to the funny farm.”
“You presume to insult me, you bloated buffoon!” exclaims Perceval, grabbing at his sword. “I will have satisfaction! Choose your weapons!”
“Very well,” replies Churchill, picking up his brandy decanter and hurling it across the study.
Before the ghost can react, the cut-glass projectile strikes him, goes through his chest, then shatters against the door. Chartwell dives under the desk as Perceval looks down at the hole in his person, then vanishes.
“Well, that's a relief,” sighs Churchill. “Can't have two prime ministers running about the place. Cause all sorts of confusion.”
He gets down onto his hands and knees, groaning at the pangs from his arthritis, and tries to coax the cat out from under the desk. There's a knock, then the maid he encountered a few minutes earlier pokes her head round the door.
“Is everything all right, sir?” she asks timidly.
Churchill pops his head up from behind the desk.
“No! I seem to have a serious drink problem, my dear!”
“Oh, I see,” says the young woman, who obviously doesn't.
“Yes, I appear to have run out of brandy. Run along and get me some more, now, there's a good girl!”
The maid disappears. There's the sound of anxious discussion outside. Churchill chortles to himself for a while, then begins the painful process of getting back into his chair.
***
Tony drops Nate off at his hotel and then heads into work, where he runs into Lord Burnside in the corridor.
“Ah, good to see you, Beaumont!”
“Likewise, sir,” Tony replies. “A bit late this morning, sorry, it's the smog.”
“Don't worry,” says Burnside, putting an arm around Tony's shoulders. “Everything's messed up, I know. But I hope this ghastly pollution won't stop you and your good lady wife attending our little dinner tonight?”
“Ah, yes, I meant to call you earlier,” says Tony, wishing he could disengage himself from his boss's meaty arm.
“Oh, I hope you aren't going to cry off, Lady Burnside is so looking forward to meeting you both!”
Tony explains about Rachel's appointment with The Ghost Man at the BBC.
“Oh, I see. Sounds like great fun, and as you say, important to her career as a writer. Far be it from me to stand in the way of the fairer sex when they develop ambition. But you can still pop round, surely?” says Burnside. “Don't disappoint the missus, Tony, she loves entertaining and we get so little time for it!”
“Well,” Tony begins, but before he can equivocate Burnside slaps him on the back and strides off, saying “Jolly good, set out at seven for seven thirty! You've got my address!”
“Bugger!” says Tony under his breath. He goes into his office and before taking off his coat, he calls Rachel to explain that they'll need a babysitter.
“Well, we've got two candidates, now,” Rachel points out. “Dad can get to know Charlotte while they struggle to control Emily.”
“Of course, should have thought of that,” says Tony, relieved. “And if Charlotte can't make it, there's still Nate. Good.”
“You shouldn't feel guilty about asking Charlotte, she loves Emily.”
“I know,” he admits, “but we do rely on her a lot as an unpaid nanny, don't we?”
“Well, we can take her out for a slap-up meal at the Ritz now that Dad's here!”
“Good idea,” says Tony, “it would also help me recover from dining with the Burnsides.”
“Hey, maybe her ladyship's okay,” suggests Rachel, with a hint
of mockery.
“She'll probably be watching me in case I eat peas with my knife,” he groans. “Still, there are worse ordeals, especially at a time like this.”
They discuss how much to tell Nate about Emily and the Sentinels, decide to be totally honest about the situation, given that Rachel's kept Nate updated by letter about their strange adventures.
“He's lived in New York all his life,” jokes Rachel. “Ghosts and demons won't bother him.”
***
“Right, lads, this is the big one,” bellows Arthur Grimsdale. “Attention, squad!”
Graeme tries to stand up a little straighter, worries that he hasn't notched his belt right enough, decides to slouch slightly in case his pants fall down.
“All right, at ease,” says Grimsdale, walking along the line of trainees. “Remember, we are at war in a way. Just like in a war, the slightest mistake, the most trivial dereliction of duty, could cause terrible death and destruction. So keep to your routine and place your detonators properly! Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mister Grimsdale!”
The boss permits himself a smile.
“I know that many of you think I'm a daft old twit. You may be right! But one thing I'm determined to do is keep my little stretch of this country's railway system running. This country was built on rails, became a great nation thanks to steam power. There are thousands of people out there counting on you, each and every one of you, to get it right. Okay, divide up into your teams, put your masks on, and get out there.”
Apprentices no longer work alone since Graeme's experience on his first night, and though Grimsdale said nothing about it everybody knows there's a connection. Graeme has been paired with a stocky, taciturn lad called Steve. As they make their way along the tracks to their section, Steve is silent, but casts the odd glance at Graeme over his mask. Eventually they reach the section near the Hammersmith Tunnel, and Steve stops, gestures Steve a bit closer.
“You wanna toss for who goes up there?” Steve says, voice muffled by the gauze mask.
He jerks his head to where the powerful light at the tunnel mouth is just visible as a red blur.
The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3) Page 12