by Andy Emery
Polly rubbed her hands together. ‘Now we really are getting somewhere!’
‘Yes, but that’s not all. In Mr Rondeau’s notes, he points out that one particular shabti exists which completes a partial spell given in the grimoire. We already know that. But he also claims that for a scholar of hieroglyphics who is also good with puzzles and word games, that shabti would not be needed, as the partial spell is hidden within the rest of the text. I suspect that part of the grimoire’s fascination for Professor Stark is that he is a devotee of puzzles and the like in his spare time.’
Polly gave a little clap. ‘So he can probably understand the whole grimoire himself. No shabti needed.’
Gedge nodded. ‘He’s still at the university? Not retired?’
‘He’s past normal retirement age, but he’s still shown as being on the staff.’
‘And how did Claude work all this out?’
‘He got a reporter on the Lloyd’s Weekly newspaper to do the digging. A man called Harry Frowde.’
Gedge dropped his gaze. ‘I met him briefly last year. Before he was murdered.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. There are some notes written in the margin. Just general background about when Stark was at Oxford. People he knew, his star pupils, that sort of thing. But the general thrust of it is that Professor Stark would be a good person to see.’
Gedge cradled his chin in a hand and looked thoughtful. ‘There’s something I’m trying to remember. I’m sure someone I know was once at Oxford studying classics, and if so whoever it was would presumably remember Stark. If only I could remember who.’
Polly stood up. ‘The main question is, when’s the first train to Oxford?’
‘Hold on, Polly. Let’s send him a note first, to check he’s around. These academics are fond of going away on research trips at a moment’s notice. Quickest would be a telegram. I’m sure the University’s got a telegraph office, and the closest one in Whitechapel’s open late. I’ll draft a note immediately.’
That evening, Cotter had left to see Ruby, while Gedge took Raistrick to a coffee house. Darius was out plying his trade.
So Polly was alone in the house when a knock sounded on the door. Two knocks close together, then another a couple of seconds later.
She opened the door. A tall man stood there. He had a slight stoop, and his black hair and beard was turning grey.
He removed a shapeless baggy cap and spoke in heavily accented English. ‘Polina Nicolayevna Volkova. I am your true father.’
Polly stared at him, her eyes wide. She took a step back, gripping the door frame for support. ‘You can’t be. I don’t know my real father. And he wasn’t interested in me anyway. He abandoned me. Claude Rondeau was my father. He was then, and he always will be.’
‘Claude was my great friend. He was an ally in my fight against the oppressors in my Russian motherland. Obviously his support was from afar. He made connections between like-minded people. But he was a kind of uncle to me.’
Polly held up her hand. ‘And yet you haven’t seen him since 1873? Have you even communicated with him since then? A letter? A telegram? Please, don’t try to pretend that we’re related, because we’re not. If you cared so much about Claude, then you wouldn’t be putting me through this distress.’
‘Believe me, Polina, the last thing I want to do is cause you pain. But it is difficult to see how a conversation like this could avoid it.’
‘We’re not having a conversation!’ She took another step back and slammed the door in the Russian’s face.
She stood with her back against the door, her head in her hands. Tears welled up, pushing through her closed eyelids.
Volkov’s disembodied voice carried through the door. It sounded as if he had his mouth right up against it. ‘I can understand your bitterness. I half-expected it. I will go now, but I would like to try again to win your trust. Polina, the bear: you liked it? I carved it for you, in secret, while I was incarcerated in Siberia.’
34
Gedge sat in the parlour at White Lion Street, staring at the battered envelope in his hand. Polly had returned after midnight and must have gone to bed quietly. He had risen early and, after unlocking the front door, he’d flung it wide and taken in the sounds and smells of the early morning, including an earthy odour wafting down from Spitalfields market. A workman whistled and tipped his cap as he went past with his lunchbox, heading in the direction of Bishopsgate. At the opposite end of the street, a lamplighter snuffed out the gas lamps.
Looking down, he’d seen the small envelope, held in place on the doorstep by a pebble. At first, he thought it was another troubling note meant for Polly. But the name, written in a strangely familiar hand, was his own. It had obviously not been posted, and why hadn’t the sender simply pushed it through the letterbox?
For some reason he didn’t want to open the letter until he was inside and alone. Now, he turned it over and over, still deferring the moment. Finally he leant over to the mantelpiece for the letter opener, slit the envelope along its top edge, and removed a piece of notepaper. It looked as old and faded as its covering, but the letters had been written only recently.
Gedge read it. Then he read it again. Turned it over. Nothing more on the other side. His brow furrowed and he stared into the fireplace. Or rather through the fireplace, not seeing it at all. His arms fell to his sides and he let the note slip onto the floor. The sound of someone knocking on the front door barely registered.
A few minutes later, Polly burst into the room. ‘Lucas! There you are. What are you doing? Did you fall asleep again? Didn’t you hear the door? I had to get up to answer it. It’s that girl. Leo’s friend, Ruby Brown. She wants to see you. It’s something to do with Leo.’
Gedge swung round. Polly stood there in her dressing gown, eyebrows raised.
‘Are you coming? What’s that on the floor?’
‘Just a letter from an old army colleague.’
He scooped it up and tucked it into an inside pocket.
Leo Cotter locked the door to his studio, looked both ways along Fashion Street, and walked down to Brick Lane. He turned right into Whitechapel High Street and jumped on an omnibus heading east. He got off at a stop a mile and a half away, and strode through narrow streets filled with almshouses. By the side of a workhouse, a group of sullen, ill-shod children watched him go by. He passed under a railway arch and, with the sidings of a Great Eastern railway coal depot to his right, he emerged at the gate of a cemetery.
A cold breeze whipped across the open space and Cotter pulled his collar up as he surveyed the grounds. A small office building stood by the main entrance, but appeared closed. A gravel path ran around the cemetery’s periphery, and another straight through its centre. Gravestones lay in rows, ranging from simple rectangular slabs to elaborate markers for the well-off. Small trees and shrubs were dotted about, but there was very little in the way of cover. The exception was a memorial near the centre of the space, which featured the monument to an eighteenth century East End benefactor called Granville Dawes. His huge gravestone formed a solid back wall to the structure, and two stone columns supported a roof, underneath which two back-to-back bench seats afforded the option to view the wider cemetery in one direction or Dawes’ monument in the other.
As Cotter approached the structure, Seamus Flynn came into view, sitting on the bench facing outwards. Cotter also noticed another man patrolling the space beyond the memorial: the only part of the cemetery that couldn’t be seen from the benches.
Flynn nodded at him.
‘Nice spot, Seamus. I s’pose that geezer’s a Banshee?’
‘He is, Leo. Pays to take no chances with these sort of meetings, I find. What with two other men in the streets over there… and there… we’ll know if anyone even remotely suspicious comes into the cemetery to monitor us. How’ve you been keeping?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’ve a few things on me mind.’
Flynn snorted. ‘You want to try running a busin
ess as big as mine. You’ve just gotta get organised, and keep your ear to the ground. Which is why we’re here. Little bird telling me that everything might not be rosy in my garden, eh? That little bird being you?’
Cotter looked away and was silent for a moment. ‘That’s right. It’s about your man O’Neill. I don’t think he’s loyal to you.’
‘I thought it might be Michael. I hope this is isn’t just because he took a fancy to that Ruby bird, or that he doesn’t like you.’
‘‘Course not. You know I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t have something important to tell.’
‘Well, you’ll forgive me if I’m uneasy, with my right-hand man being called in to question. Go ahead. And this had better be good. Wait. What’s that?’
Cotter followed Flynn’s gaze to the cemetery’s boundary fence, where something was suddenly reflecting light at them, rapidly on and off. He realised it was one of Flynn’s flunkies signalling with a mirror. Something was wrong.
‘Someone’s coming. If you’ve tricked me…’ Cotter felt the point of a short but sharp-looking blade prodding his stomach. Both men looked in the direction of the flashing light, and saw a figure move out from the tree he’d been standing behind, and point to his right. Twenty yards away, standing at the end of the central path, with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, was a tall man in a long black coat, bare-headed with unkempt hair being blown about by the wind.
Cotter’s eyes widened. ‘Shit. It’s Gedge.’
‘Who the hell’s he?’
‘He’s a friend. Believe me, Seamus, I don’t know how he knew. It must have been Ruby. I’ve tried to keep all this from her, but she must have guessed I’d be making a move this morning. She was worried about me.’
‘With good reason. Why would she have talked to this bloke in particular? Something special, is he?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose he is. He used to be a soldier, then some sort of secret agent. He couldn’t have known about this place, so he must have followed me. I kept checking. I was sure there was nobody behind me. But with his background—’
‘Alright. I get the picture. What exactly is he doing in the East End?’
‘He got involved in something out India way a few years ago. Then he left the service. Says he wants to live the quiet life near his daughter now. She’s a nurse somewhere nearby. But he seems to keep getting involved in the rough stuff. It was him that broke up that trafficking ring last year. One of the kidnapped girls was his daughter.’
‘I thought the name was familiar. Lucas Gedge. A handy sort to have around by the sound of it, but not likely to be keen on criminal types like me.’
‘I’ll just tell him to go away, so we can carry on talking.’
Flynn laughed and nodded at Gedge. ‘Something tells me this is a genie we won’t be able to put back in the bottle quite so easily. And you’ve intrigued me, Leonidas.’
Gedge saw the bearded figure with Cotter wave, and the henchman motioned for him to approach the memorial. He walked up the gravel path and stopped a few yards short of the benches. The man he knew must be Seamus Flynn was regarding him with interest.
Gedge smiled. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
Cotter spluttered. ‘What do you mean by followin’ me? You might have messed everything up.’
Flynn laughed. ‘It’s true Mr Cotter here was about to clue me in on a very delicate matter. But before we go into that , I believe I’m in the presence of the man who broke up the Ackerman gang? Mr Lucas Gedge?’
‘That’s who I am, but I just helped the police to apprehend the criminals.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re too modest. Well, you obviously know I’m Seamus Flynn. Did you also know that our young friend Cotter here used to run with my own little troupe of bandits? Many years ago, of course. Before we got this Banshees moniker.’
‘I did not. That’s very interesting. But I’ve come here because Miss Ruby Brown’s very worried about Leo, and I said I’d see if I could help. I have a shrewd idea that it’s connected with something I’m looking into myself.’
Flynn nodded. ‘Right. Well, I suggest you take a seat and we’ll both listen to what Leo has to say. He claims he has information that my trusted colleague Michael O’Neill, son of County Cork, may not have my best interests at heart.’ He drew the knife back from Cotter and slipped it into an inside pocket.
Gedge sat down and Cotter began his tale, retelling what he’d overheard at the rear of the Black Boar.
‘The buggers nearly caught me, what with O’Neill’s men and the evil sod who runs the place, but never mind. I clearly heard O’Neill conspiring against you. Him and his friends have got a nice, cosy meeting-place at the back of that pub. He’s arranged to take delivery of what sounds like a huge consignment of opium, and have the gang become the distributors and dealers on the streets of London. And you’ve always said you’ll never touch the stuff, Seamus.’
‘True enough. And that’s quite apart from going behind my back…’ Flynn’s eyes seemed to glaze over for a few seconds, then he snapped his attention back to the here and now. ‘Right. Thank you, Leo, for providing this information. I’ll look into it, and if it checks out, I’ll take care of the problem.’
Cotter stood up, sensing it was time to go. But Flynn continued. ‘If it should transpire there’s no substance in these allegations of yours, then I shall take a very dim view of it indeed, however. If that were to be the case, I’ll make it my business to come after you. Both of you. There won’t be a place in London where you can hide. Understand?’
Cotter nodded, but Gedge merely smiled. ‘Threats like that don’t work with me, Flynn. And if you go after Leo here, you’ll need somewhere to hide yourself.’
Flynn stared at him for a long moment. Then a grin spread across his own face. ‘Hah! It’s a long time since anybody dared to speak to me like that. In some small way, we’re similar characters, Lucas Gedge. Now, that thing you’re looking into. What is it?’
‘It’s to do with the death of a very dear friend. It involves strange religious practices, ancient Egyptian archaeology, and musty books. Actually, one particular book that your Mr O’Neill seems interested in.’
Flynn shook his head. ‘Mmm… He has mentioned a book to me. Sounds like something else he should be leaving well alone. Well, I wish you luck in that. But O’Neill’s mine to deal with. One way or another I’ll be in touch soon. If you’re genuine, no need to worry.’
Gedge nodded. ‘Understood. But can I ask a question, in connection with what I’ve just said? Does a girl called Sally O’Riordan run with the Banshees? She’s got long black hair.’
‘As it happens, yes. She’s only recently joined us. The apple of Michael O’Neill’s eye, as it goes. I can guess what you’ll ask next, and yes, if she’s involved in his deceptions, you’re welcome to her. Now, I need some peace to think this through. Please be so good as to leave me here, gentlemen, and take yourselves home.’
Gedge and Cotter made their way back to Spitalfields together.
‘Cotter, once Ruby had asked me to help, I couldn’t do much else. I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it. But I think you need some support.’
Cotter, who’d been quiet, shrugged. ‘Yeah, I suppose it’s alright. Gave me the fright of my life seeing you walking up to Flynn, though. I wondered what you were goin’ to do.’
‘I’ve got some good news. It turns out that a boffin in Oxford has had the infamous grimoire all along. I’ve had a telegram saying that this chap’s officially retired, but he still lives in college. He’s been in France at a conference for a couple of days, but I’ve arranged to see him as soon as he gets back, on Friday.’
As Gedge and Cotter left the cemetery, the cogs in Flynn’s mind whirred. He’d had his suspicions about O’Neill for some time. He was aware he’d been making contacts on the fringe of what Flynn considered good business. He was also too cocky by half, and that was dangerous. So he should have been grateful for Cotter’s revelations, which seemed
to show that O’Neill had indeed gone against his wishes.
But he had mixed emotions.
Twenty years earlier, Leo Cotter’s father was his right-hand man, like O’Neill was now. He’d viewed both men almost like his own sons. But Cotter senior had died after a police raid, in circumstances still clouded in mystery, and now it seemed he was about to lose O’Neill.
It was a mistake to grow too attached to people. It was a business, after all.
35
Ruby stood outside the front door of her flat, fumbling around in her bag for the key.
An Irish voice spoke from the shadows in the corner of the passageway, making her flinch and wheel around. She recognised the cadence of County Cork.
‘Hello, Ruby. How have you been?’
‘Michael! I don’t know what you’re doing these days. You seem to think you can get away with anything. You’re scaring me.’
‘Now, now. Let’s go inside and talk, nice and calmly.’
He nodded towards the door and Ruby opened it. Inside, she dumped her bag and keys on the hall table and turned to face him.
‘Well? What is it?’
‘I need you to come with me.’
‘Why? I’ve had a tiring day and I just want to find something to eat and get my head down. Michael, I’m beginning to wish I’d never got involved with you.’
O’Neill shook his head. ‘Too late for that, I’m afraid, my girl. I’m going to have to insist.’
He took a step forward, his hands away from his sides, as though he meant to grab her. She edged away, and he lunged, grasping both her arms above the elbows and forcing her down onto the table.
She screamed, but he forced his weight down on her, squeezing the breath from her chest.
His mouth was just an inch from hers; she could smell the beer on his breath as he whispered.