by Andy Emery
O’Neill sat in a chair with his back to the window, his green hat and a tumbler of spirits beside him on a small table. Cotter could just make out the legs of three other men, sitting facing him. And, thanks to the window being open by a couple of inches at the top, he could now hear something of the conversation the men were having.
‘…so is it time to toast our endeavour, Michael?’
‘Hold your horses a moment. I want to remind you again of the utmost need for secrecy. Flynn mustn’t know anything.’
‘Come on, Michael. I thought you were going to be the big man now. Time to take over from the old feller.’
‘I have to bide my time. When the profits start rolling in from this little enterprise and one or two other things I’ve got planned, I’ll make my move. Some of the key boys in the gang are with me. I just need to work on a few more, then it’ll be a fait accompli, as the frogs say.’
‘Well, you’ve no need to worry about secrecy from our side. As you know, we’re used to this sort of thing. The men at the dock, the customs, police. They’re all paid off. Safe as houses. It’ll be fine as long as your own men know what to do, how to handle it and transport it.’
‘They do. Alright, that’s it. Now we can make that toast.’
O’Neill raised his voice a little, to be heard above the cheers of the other men. ‘Boys, here’s to our new venture. Very soon, the streets of the East End, no, the whole of London, are going to see the biggest surge in demand for opium there’s ever been. Whether it’s smoked at the Chinese joints down in Limehouse, or as laudanum in the salons of the well-to-do up west, we’ll be the ones satisfying that demand. We’ll be richer than bankers!’
Cotter had been lying on the wet cobbles with his ear close to the open window. As he’d heard all he needed to, he went to get up, but his foot dislodged a stone that fell with a clatter between the window and the wall. He could see O’Neill start and leap up.
‘What the hell was that? Is there someone there, out the back? Cain said this room was secure!’
‘Michael, it’s probably just a moggy. Don’t panic, man.’
‘You can’t be too careful. I’m going to take a look.’
Cotter heard them running up the stairs to the dark alley. They reached the top and looked around, quartering the ground.
‘Nobody here, Michael. I told you. A cat, most likely. Relax.’
O’Neill looked about him and ran his fingers through his hair.
In the shadows, behind some trash cans a few feet away, Cotter held his breath.
32
Lucas, you don’t seem in a very good frame of mind today, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Gedge shook his head as Raistrick bustled about, preparing for their first session in Spitalfields. ‘I’ve had two more pieces of bad news from the police. The boffin from the Soane Museum, Greatorex, has gone missing. Whether he’s lying low or something bad has happened to him, we don’t know. And worse, the thug we captured; one of the cult enforcers who call themselves Death Dogs? He’s dead. Despite being searched, he’d concealed some sort of dried mushroom inside his shirt. It was obviously highly poisonous. For two days they thought he’d just upset his stomach eating some mouldy jail food.’
Raistrick’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s fascinating. Could you describe the symptoms?’
‘Stomach pains, vomiting. When they took him off to hospital, he was hallucinating, seeing dragons or some such, then there was a lot more throwing up.’
‘Really? It sounds very much like amatoxin poisoning. Perhaps Amanita phalloides. The death cap. Lethal even in small quantities.’
‘You know quite a bit about the natural world, don’t you, Howard? You went foraging for berries and edible plants while I was staying with you.’
‘Yes, it’s one of the areas that interests me. These days people have forgotten how much of value can be found within a short walk of their home. Everything’s considered a weed.’
‘That room, at the top of your house. Is that where you carry out your studies into such things?’
Raistrick smiled. ‘Ah, I’m surprised you didn’t ask me about that room when you were my guest. Yes, I do tend to think of it as a sort of inner sanctum, away from prying eyes. It’s my own little world, set apart from petty materialistic concerns. I keep it locked a lot of the time as I keep some items in there that are... sensitive. I have fingers in a lot of pies, but much of what I deal with would not be appreciated by modern minds. You, Lucas, are different. I am sure you would see the relevance of the fields in which I dabble. One day I will tell you more about it.
‘Now, try to clear all your concerns from your mind. From what you say, it’s important we have this session together.’
They’d cleared a lot of the ephemera from the centre of the parlour: papers and books had been strewn about with gay abandon since Claude Rondeau’s time, but now they were placed in neat piles round the walls. In the middle of the room, two chairs faced each other. Raistrick sat in one, Gedge took the other. In the corner, Crichton slept soundly on a rolled up rug.
‘So, Lucas, I will ask you again to confirm you want to go through with this. You already know that these sessions can reveal more than you might want to see. But you also know that I firmly believe the only way of truly getting over the effects of what you have experienced is to relive them and accept them.
‘Furthermore, you have the objective of trying to more clearly visualise the blond-haired man in your nightmares. The man you seem to regard as something of a nemesis.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Well, then. We will begin. Please loosen your collar and make yourself comfortable. I propose to go back to the aftermath of your torture at the hands of the Afghan tribesmen, and the man you believe to have been controlling them. It was where we left off at the end of our sessions in Sussex.’
Gedge nodded, nervous. ‘I’ve come to believe it holds the key to who he is. As I said, I’m sure I knew his name, but somehow, it’s been blocked from my mind.’
‘Quite so. Sit comfortably in the chair, without slouching. Now, start to breathe deeply. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Close your eyes. Try to clear your mind of all thoughts. Concentrate on what your body is feeling as you sit there. How the chair feels under you. The soft sounds from outside this room. The faint aromas. The musty smell of books, the odour of leather, the lingering warm baking smells from the kitchen.’
Raistrick was quiet for a full minute. Gedge breathed in, then out. Time seemed to slow down. Gedge’s world consisted solely of the sensations he was feeling at that moment.
Raistrick spoke again. ‘It is October 1888. Northern Afghanistan. Yet again, you have been sent deep into enemy territory by your commanding officer, Major Felix Bellhouse. But this time, something has gone wrong. You are captured by a Russian-sympathising band of tribesmen, and tortured for several hours. We are all too familiar with your experiences there. They are the stuff of many nightmares you have suffered since. But we want to go beyond that, to the morning after, when you awoke after passing out hours before, when the brigands decided you’d had enough. First, Lucas, please tell me how you feel, as you awake that morning.’
Gedge’s eyes remained closed, but he began to speak, in a curious monotone. ‘A coppery taste in my mouth. I can feel the dried blood on my face cracking, then I start to feel the pain again. My ribs, and beneath them, the aching kidneys. I’m lying on my side. It must be the easiest way, because now I feel jabs of pain across my back. I somehow recall they are the result of burns. And I’m only seeing out of my right eye. The left won’t open. I’m freezing cold, wearing only rags. I realise I’m outside. The sun’s just coming up to my left.’
‘Can you move?’
‘I don’t want to. It hurts too much. In too many parts of my body.’
‘Describe the scene around you.’
Gedge, still with eyes closed, winced. ‘I can make out a tent behind me, probably where they tor
tured me. On every other side there are featureless mounds of sand and rocks, here and there patches of scrubby plants.
‘Five feet away from my face, something is stirring. A furry animal, a little like a miniature rabbit, snuffles at the sand, then turns and looks at me. I imagine it’s wondering what I am doing here in its domain. I’ve seen these creatures before. The round ears and small tail... He’s what the locals call a pika, a rodent. He looks at me for a minute or so. It is quiet, and I swear I can even hear the little animal breathing. For some reason I am trying to make my own breaths as silent as possible.
‘Then the pika pricks up his ears, his eyes shift to something behind me, and he scuttles off at high speed. I hear the swish of canvas being pulled aside, and soft footfalls in the sand.
‘A figure hoves into view, but immediately moves in front of me, so I can only see a silhouette.’
Raistrick interrupts. ‘You can distinguish nothing? No features? What about his height?’
‘Wait. The figure bends down towards me. He’s surprisingly gentle. He takes hold of my chin, and raises my head, as if inspecting me for damage. Perhaps he sees me squinting into the sun, but he shifts to the side, allowing the light to illuminate his features for the first time.’
Gedge shifted in his chair, his face contorting. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and his knuckles whitened as they gripped the chair’s arms.
All was quiet for a few moments.
‘It’s coming back to me. That face. Unnaturally thin, almost skeletal. The hair close-cropped but, extraordinarily for Asia, a yellow-blond colour. A haze of stubble on the narrow chin. The round wire-framed glasses. The lenses seem thick. Short-sighted? But most of all, the rictus smile. A fixed grin that he seems to wear permanently. Makes me think the man is mad.’
‘Is he saying anything?’
Gedge nodded. ‘Mr Gedge, I admire you. You have given us next to nothing. My colleagues, I might say my crude colleagues, want to continue, to the extent of cutting off some parts of your body, in the belief that you will then reveal some dark secret for which they will be paid handsomely. I know that won’t happen. You will either die or continue your resistance.
‘In reality, I do not believe there is any dark secret you can impart. I already know of your rather unusual commanding officer, Major Bellhouse, and the fact that he has been using you as some sort of one-man army against both the Russians, and the sort of unsophisticated rabble with which I now find myself allied. But if Bellhouse has greater aims, it does not make sense that he would communicate them to you. I believe he is a renegade officer on the edge of a creaking empire, going against his government’s express instructions. Certainly, if your existence became common knowledge, a diplomatic incident would result. Heads would probably roll, in London as well as Simla.’
‘Do you respond, Lucas?’
‘I manage to raise myself up, and ask him what he’s going to do with me. Still the rictus grin. I am going to let you go. Of course, the others will not approve, but that will be their problem. They seem to fear me for some reason, so insubordination is not likely when they discover you have disappeared. Mr Gedge, I get the distinct impression you will be more useful to me alive rather than dead. And, as I said, I greatly admire your fortitude.’
Gedge was perspiring heavily now, and visibly shaking.
Rainstrick leaned forward. ‘I think we should call it a day. We can pick up from this point in a day or two.’
‘No, damn you! I’ve got to continue. Give me a prompt, Raistrick!’
The struck-off doctor considered for a moment, then continued. ‘We’ve already learnt much. And there are many more questions to be answered. But of most interest to you was his name. Seeing that face again in all its detail, can you now bring to mind what he was called? Think of that face, what it represents. Often we encode our memories like that. Think, Lucas!’
Gedge’s face screwed up, and he sat bolt upright, his feet arching up on their heels. He seemed to be physically trying to draw the man’s name from within his mind.
He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled sharply, firing out the name as he did so. ‘Dressler. Amon Dressler.’
‘So he’s German? It’s a common enough German name.’
Gedge’s eyes snapped open. He fell back into the chair, and a shiver ran through his body. ‘Maybe so. But he’s also known, in certain circles, by another epithet. All over central Asia, in parts of Africa, and God knows where else, a few military men, government officials and brigands have heard of him. Or, more specifically of his alter ego. The Hunting Dog. In German, Der Jagdhund.’
Raistrick also sat back in his chair. The two men finally relaxed and stared at each other. Raistrick smiled. ‘That’s it. His name, or names. You know them now. You must feel some power has returned to you. But does it actually do you any good?’
‘Not “good”, perhaps. But having reclaimed that information, I’m more certain than ever that Dressler will feature again in my life. “You will be more useful to me alive rather than dead.”’
In the corner of the room, Crichton let out a sharp yelp.
Raistrick rebuked him. ‘For God’s sake, old chap! You made me jump out of my skin!’
Gedge got up and walked to the window. He pulled back the curtains and looked out at White Lion Street. ‘I get the feeling that some of the events of the last few weeks are leading to something as momentous, if not more so, than those of last autumn. I started off thinking we were investigating a bunch of cranks involved in the crazed worship of ancient gods. But that developed into something much bigger, and events seem to be conspiring against us, to prevent us carrying on our fantasy of a calm and peaceful life here in Spitalfields.’
‘Lucas, aren’t you exaggerating? Could it just be that—’
Gedge held his head, as if subject to a sudden giddy turn. ‘Howard, never mind that now. Something else is coming back to me, something more about Dressler. He’s a mercenary, essentially. The scion of an old Prussian family, steeped in the hunting traditions of the German forests. He put his skills to work in the military by hunting not animals, but men. They call him The Hunting Dog because he’s tenacious in his pursuit. He’ll go to any lengths and he always gets his man, similar to the Canadian Mounted Police.’
Raistrick pondered. ‘You say he’s a mercenary. Evidently in Afghanistan he was working for the Russians, but now he could be anywhere, working for anyone?’
‘I suppose so. Even our dearly beloved Intelligence Department here in Britain.’
33
Later that day. Polly returned from a shopping expedition and chatted with Gedge over lunch while Miss Fowler worked away upstairs. Raistrick had gone for a long walk with Crichton, exploring the East End.
There was a muffled cry from above. Polly looked at Gedge and called out. ‘Miss Fowler! Are you alright?’
The elderly woman was certainly mobile, as the next thing they heard was her light feet pattering along the landing and then down the stairs.
She burst into the room, brandishing a piece of paper, looking a little flustered.
‘I’ve found something! Finally. Something I think might be important!’
Polly glanced at Gedge. ‘Miss Fowler, please calm yourself and take a seat.’
She settled into the chair, still gripping the paper. ‘As I have said before, none of the cyphers your father used are particularly hard to unpick. They’re enough to put off most people, but not anyone with training. He varied them a little but—’
Gedge interrupted her. ‘I’m sure that’s very interesting, but I think we can leave the technical side to you. Can you just tell us what the notes you’ve decrypted mean?’
‘Oh, of course. Please excuse me. It’s just that I find getting involved in this sort of thing again so exciting. To get to the point, I believe this tells us the location of the Lykopolis Grimoire.’
Gedge and Polly sat up straight.
‘If you’ll bear with me, the key is in the his
tory of the grimoire. It’s believed that the original papyrus sheets were written in ancient Egypt, some time in the thirteenth dynasty, around 1700 years BC. Then in the early eighteenth century they were looted from one of the ancient monuments under orders of the French consul general in Egypt, Benoît de Maillet. He sent back many antiquities to King Louis XIV and other more minor nobles, and to some of Europe’s largest museums.
‘The grimoire went to a noted Parisian collector of antiquities, the Comte de Caylus, who had the papyrus sheets firmly bound between leather covers to protect the valuable contents. You have to bear in mind, by the way, that nobody at that time could read the grimoire. Hieroglyphics were not understood for another hundred years.
‘The location of the book today, and I think we’ll just have to hope it’s still there, is provided in an account by a French archaeologist called Lapin from only two years ago. He retells the sale of the grimoire, together with a number of other objects, in 1845. Apparently the Comte’s heirs were not so interested in Egyptology.
‘The buyer was a private collector in Oxford, England, by the name of Percival Stark. He was a young classics professor who was independently wealthy, and lived in a mansion in Summertown to the north of the city, where he maintained a small private collection. He became quite an authority in Egyptology, and a rival of our Mr Hawthorne.’
Gedge frowned. ‘But this isn’t generally known?’
‘No. Stark must have been able to keep his ownership of the tome totally secret. To the extent that the grimoire’s whereabouts were known no more accurately than “somewhere in England”.’
‘Interesting. But do the files say whether he still has the book?’
‘That’s the fascinating thing. Lapin got quite friendly with Stark, and on one winter night a couple of years ago, he says that Stark showed him the grimoire.’