by Mark Latham
‘We—’ Lillian began.
‘Yes, Sir Toby,’ Sir Arthur interrupted. ‘The cabman, Dresden, is currently under watch. We think he was lying about his involvement with the killer.’
‘We should bring him in. What do you say, Cherleten?’
A third official leaned forward from a plume of cigar smoke. ‘I concur,’ he said, his voice rasping. ‘Let’s hand him to my Nightwatch. I’ll have them poke about in his head for a bit. Whatever secrets he’s keeping will soon come tumbling out, eh, Sir Arthur?’
If it was a jest, it was a mirthless one. But Lord Cherleten was famed for his black humour. He sat smoking fat cigars in the corner of the room, always away from the light of Sir Toby’s desk-lamp, somewhat theatrically, Lillian thought. He was the Order’s foremost keeper—and discoverer—of secrets. Lord of the armoury, and founder of the Nightwatch. Spymaster supreme, and second in command of the Order of Apollo.
‘I’m sure you know best,’ said Sir Arthur, with an air of distaste. Lillian fancied she saw Cherleten smirk before vanishing into the shadows again, his tufts of pale red hair the only thing to distinguish him. She knew Arthur was the only field agent who could get away with speaking his mind to Lord Cherleten, due primarily to his title, but also to his prodigious psychical gifts. Even her brother would think twice before crossing Cherleten, though heaven knew he’d considered it often enough. Lillian wondered why Cherleten was at the debriefing at all.
Sir Toby looked up at them from beneath bushy eyebrows the colour of gunmetal. ‘Agents, you have been brought together because your reports contain several disturbing correlations. It would seem that the suspects in your seemingly disparate cases are connected, if not, indeed, the same person.’
Lillian looked at John—he seemed as perplexed as her.
‘Lieutenant Hardwick returned this morning from Hyde, where he was investigating certain irregularities in the army’s munitions supplies.’ Sir Toby passed a pair of grainy photographs to Arthur, who handed them in turn to Lillian. ‘These pictures were taken less than a week ago by Corporal Henry Moreton, of Debdale. The army sent him to take a look at one of their munitions factories near Hyde. You see, it ceased production a month ago, citing an outbreak of fever amongst its workers, and thus it failed to fulfil the month’s orders. Dockets were sent to the War Office and the Admiralty defaulting on the agreement to supply shells for at least another month. And yet, as you can see from Mr. Moreton’s photographs, the factory is very much operational. The photographs were sent with a note, explaining that the factory is not only functioning as expected, but is also working through the night, every night, with goods coming in and out regularly. And yet, we do not know where those goods are going. A telegram was sent to Moreton the day before yesterday, to which he did not respond.’
‘Has he been found?’ Arthur asked.
‘What was left of him, at any rate,’ John replied.
‘I see,’ Arthur said.
From the look on Arthur’s face, Lillian guessed he was remembering the scene in the Dials; it was certainly not far from her own thoughts.
‘Lieutenant Hardwick managed to trace one of the most recent deliveries to the factory,’ Sir Toby went on. ‘A consignment of guncotton; a very large consignment. It began its journey at a freight-house in Faversham, and ended up being packed into weapons of war in Hyde, for purposes unknown.’
Faversham was Lillian and John’s old family home, before their father’s promotion had brought them to London. At its mention, Lillian glanced over at Marcus Hardwick. He stood in silence, his back to the three agents, thrown into silhouette by the roiling red sky through the window.
When had the sky first started to burn? It seemed like for ever ago.
She ought to remember—the Great Catastrophe had marked the end of her childhood, and the loss of her father as she knew him. She blinked the thought away—it was pointless to wish her father back. They were worlds apart now, it seemed.
‘Although Lieutenant Hardwick was unable to retrieve any physical evidence, he also stumbled across an etherium distillery. An unlicensed etherium distillery.’
Lillian noted Arthur’s unease at mention of the Majestic drug.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Toby,’ Arthur said, ‘but is this not a military matter? Why this is the business of the Order?’
‘Because I decided it was,’ growled Lord Hardwick. He turned away from the window, and the hellfire beyond illuminated his weathered face in a most ghastly fashion. ‘Have you any idea of what is happening in the north?’
‘A little, sir,’ Arthur said, coolly. Lillian was surprised by her father’s tone. Arthur usually commanded more respect, even from his superiors in the Order. She hoped the unpleasantness was not on her account. Arthur went on, ‘The tearing of the veil has affected northerners most terribly, and disease and dispossession run rife. I have heard talk of insurrection, in some quarters…’
‘Insurrection… indeed; and what if I told you that in every great hub of industry in this realm, rebellion has begun to take hold? What if I told you that the people of Manchester, Sheffield, York and Newcastle—among others—no longer respect the Crown, or the government? That no metropolitan force or yeomanry dare to even try to enforce law and order?’
‘How… how could we not have heard of this?’ Arthur asked.
‘Because,’ Sir Toby picked up the thread, ‘we cannot allow anyone to hear of it. We face the most terrible crisis mankind has ever faced. Demons prey upon the weak, the dead do not rest easy in their graves, and more and more people succumb to the madness that stalks our streets with each passing day. To allow news to spread that political factions are on the verge of fracturing the country would be the final straw. There has to be law, here in London at least. You ask why Lord Hardwick has entrusted the Order with this matter? Because it is a delicate operation indeed. We believe the munitions factories are being targeted by a group of well-organised political dissidents, who wish to use their possessions to hold the Crown to ransom. Can you imagine if these rebels managed to manufacture weapons of mass destruction to use against our own armies in our own country? Or sell them to our enemies? What began as mutinous grumbling from petty councillors and labour unions has become something dire indeed. This game is a political one, and the factories are the tipping point in the balance of power.’
‘John’s—Lieutenant Hardwick’s—assignment in Cheshire has undoubtedly uncovered part of this terrible plot,’ said Lillian. ‘But I do not understand how it links with the murders in the East End. What has poor Molly Goodheart to do with this?’
‘Nothing,’ said Marcus Hardwick, ‘but her killer may have everything to do with it. Your brother uncovered the identity of a man we believe to be a prime agitator in the north, and has long evaded the law—operated above the law, in fact. His name is Lord Lucien de Montfort, though his claims to the peerage are tenuous at best. He belongs to a group calling themselves the “Knights Iscariot”—a cabal of occultists and aristocrats who claim to be older even than our Order. When he is not lobbying for devolution of political power to himself and his allies, he has been known to indulge in… somewhat salacious and even barbaric activities here in London. If your cabman can admit dealings with de Montfort, then our suspicions will be confirmed.’
‘Until now,’ Sir Toby said, ‘our enemy has hidden in the shadows. It is your job to unmask him, and drag him kicking and screaming into the light.’
‘De Montfort is a man of prodigious power,’ John said. ‘I stabbed him and he did not bleed. He was physically strong and fast, and yet also possessed powers of foresight. What manner of man is he?’
‘Barely a man at all,’ said Cherleten. ‘A Majestic, yes; but something more, also.’
‘There are forces at work here that threaten the very fabric of our society,’ Sir Toby said. ‘You three agents are the first of our Order to make contact with these creatures in over a century. They are growing in number and audacity, but what exactly they are pla
nning is unclear. De Montfort is the key to their plans, we believe, but his true motives are known only to him.’
‘Please, Sir Toby,’ Lillian said. ‘If you will forgive my bluntness, you are speaking in riddles. What are we dealing with and what must we do?’
Sir Toby almost smiled, Lillian thought. Almost.
‘Do not be so keen to get back into the field, Agent Hardwick,’ he said. ‘That these monsters are not from the Rift is troubling indeed, for if they did not tear their way through to us like the other creatures of the night, then they must have been among us all along. I trust you understand the implications.’
In spite of everything that had befallen the Empire—indeed, humanity—in the last few years, Lillian had never heard Sir Toby talk in such a manner.
‘How do we know that they are not from the Rift? What are they?’ Lillian grew impatient. More than that, her shoulder was throbbing, and she was starting to feel nauseated. She realised that the sensation had been growing gradually since she had first set foot in the room, and as soon as she had thought this, it became harder to push her discomfort from her mind.
‘It is not easy to explain,’ said Sir Toby. ‘So I will begin with our more recent evidence, and you can draw your own conclusions. It began with wild reports of bodies being desecrated in funeral parlours and churchyards. Increased reports of bodysnatching followed and then, just two months ago, human remains were discovered by the Yorkshire constabulary in a small village on the edge of the moors.’
‘I remember reading about that in the newspapers,’ Lillian remarked. ‘They attributed the killings to an old legend about a beast on the moors, did they not?’
‘They did. And no one took it seriously, except perhaps to wonder if it was the work of the Riftborn; if perhaps the bones belonged to some Majestic who had overdosed on etherium.’ At those words, Lillian felt sure Arthur shifted uncomfortably. ‘And yet,’ Sir Toby went on, ‘when the same phenomenon occurred five more times, around York, Whitby and even Manchester, it came to the attention of Apollo Lycea.’
‘I had not heard of any other cases,’ said Lillian. Sir Arthur remained silent.
‘Then that is testament to the integrity of your fellow agents,’ replied Sir Toby. ‘I asked them to conceal all evidence of the crimes, lest it cause a panic, and to keep speculation about monsters and cannibals out of the newspapers. Isn’t that right, Sir Arthur?’
‘Indeed, Sir Toby,’ came the reply.
Lillian turned to look at Arthur. The only rule in the field was discretion. If Arthur had investigated a case without her and been sworn to secrecy—as was so often the custom—she could hardly hold it against him. And yet she did anyhow, for how could he withhold such information from her if he thought it might have any bearing on their own case?
‘What our agents discovered,’ continued Sir Toby, ‘was a string of disappearances—of both the living and the dead—in a pattern across the north. Mostly unfortunates and beggars, but all in most mysterious circumstances, and with no real regard for secrecy when disposing of the remains. Bones chewed, flesh eaten and, in some cases… well, Sir Arthur can explain better than I.’
Arthur cleared his throat, probably feeling the hole that Lillian’s eyes bore into him more keenly than most. ‘Of course, Sir Toby. As I stated in my last report, the final victim we discovered was in a less defiled state. A young woman, an unfortunate taken from the slums we think. The body was found in a crypt beneath York Minster, seemingly drained of all of its blood, and partly… eaten.’
Lillian observed that Sir Arthur looked uneasy at the memory. She guessed that he must have used his powers to discern something of the victim’s history, and perhaps had gleaned more than he’d bargained for. Whatever gruesome discovery he had made in York perhaps explained his hesitation yesterday.
She snapped her attention away from her partner when she realised that Lord Cherleten was standing right next to her. He had a way about him that was sly, and a tread that was silent as a cat. He reached across her, holding out a box of cigars to Sir Arthur, who took one gratefully and lit it. Lillian fancied it was to steady his nerves. She wished she could partake too, as the close proximity of Cherleten made her skin crawl, but that was not the done thing. No, for all of the systems of rank and military swagger of Apollo Lycea, it was still based in a gentlemen’s club, and Sir Arthur Furnival was a gentleman of high standing, not a mere soldier to be ordered about.
So what does that make me?
‘We encountered a great deal of superstition from the locals about the murders,’ Sir Arthur went on once his cigar was lit. ‘I confess, at first glance it was tempting to write it off as the work of the Riftborn; yet my own intuition and Smythe’s examination—’
‘Beauchamp Smythe?’ Lillian interrupted, instantly regretting her outburst as all eyes turned to her. In her experience, the surgeon Beauchamp Smythe was a popinjay, so absorbed in promoting his fledgling theories of ‘forensics’ that he often lost sight of the goals of Apollo Lycea. She felt the strangest sense of betrayal that Sir Arthur had been on a secret assignment with an agent she disliked.
‘Yes, the same,’ Arthur replied, the look on his face one of puzzlement and amusement both. ‘As I was saying, Smythe’s examination of the cadavers led us to believe that the killers were certainly flesh and blood. And I suppose now we’ve seen the evidence with our own eyes.’
‘Or perhaps you do not see it all,’ said Cherleten. He always had an air of eccentricity about him—eyes wide, red hair dishevelled. Every sentence uttered seemed to hang in the air, as if he were waiting for imaginary friends to finish it for him. Perhaps he was trying to be enigmatic. Lillian snuck a glance at Sir Toby, whose eyes belied an annoyance at his peer, if only for a moment.
‘Agent Smythe has been of singular use again,’ Sir Toby interjected, dismissing Cherleten’s jibe. ‘He has already examined the remains that you found in the Dials. Beneath Miss Goodheart’s fingernails was a small amount of necrotised flesh, like as not clawed from the attacker in her final moments.’
Both Lillian and Sir Arthur had heard many times over how Smythe believed that one day criminals would be apprehended by the scientific method of examining skin, blood and hair left at the scene of their crimes. And yet, they had also listened to Smythe bemoaning how such advances in forensic science were beyond the reach of the medical fraternity at this time.
‘This cannot help us identify the killer, surely?’ asked Lillian, lending voice to her thoughts.
‘So we would have said previously, were it not for Lieutenant Hardwick’s struggle with de Montfort. You see, as the lieutenant has told us, de Montfort did not bleed. The flesh beneath the girl’s fingernails was also curiously bloodless. Smythe has examined the girl, and the severed hand that Agent Hardwick and Sir Arthur discovered. He believes the flesh beneath the fingernails was not from the creature Agent Hardwick shot, although most like from its… kin.’
‘Kin? You cannot mean de Montfort.’ John sounded incredulous.
‘The flesh had been treated with some type of bleach. And it had been, in Smythe’s professional opinion, dead for longer than the unfortunate herself. That is to say, it looked as though it were taken from a corpse.’
‘But you said it was likely from her killer,’ Lillian said.
‘Indeed I did.’
Arthur was quickest to comprehend. ‘It has to be some new devilry of the Riftborn,’ he said.
‘I am afraid not, Sir Arthur,’ Sir Toby replied. ‘We entertained several theories at first, but eventually had to accept the truth of it. Events that we had long hoped would never come to pass have been set in motion. The Order’s learned opinion is that the creatures you three encountered are not of the Rift, but are indeed of our world—though they are not entirely flesh and blood. Lord Cherleten is here today because he has something of an insight into the case, having collated intelligence from several… sources… over the years. I do not mean to beat around the bush, but it is difficu
lt for me to believe what I am about to tell you, even though I have already seen the evidence for myself…’ He trailed off, as if trying to gather his thoughts. The old man is rattled, thought Lillian. From the corner of her eye, she saw Cherleten smirking. God, but he loves to hold all the cards.
‘What do you know of vampires?’ said Cherleten, blurting out the question gleefully.
Sir Arthur almost choked on his cigar. John only half-managed to suppress a scoff. Sir Toby did not so much as blink. Lillian took the bait, if only to bring a swift conclusion to Cherleten’s game.
‘They are a fiction, dreamt up by gypsies and peasants from Bohemia and beyond, and served up in the penny dreadfuls by the more sensationalist writers. Unless you are suggesting that the things we all encountered yesterday were… vampires?’ She scorned the notion. Lord Cherleten remained unruffled.
‘A fiction, indeed? I suppose I would say the same, were I prone to denying the evidence of my own eyes.’
‘I’m sure Agent Hardwick means no offence,’ Sir Toby intervened. ‘Likewise, I am sure that we can both understand her incredulity.’
Cherleten smiled and returned to his seat, leaving a coil of thick cigar smoke in his wake that made Lillian’s eyes flutter. The oppressive atmosphere of the room was affecting her. Damn this corset, I can hardly breathe.
‘I dislike the word “vampire” as much as you,’ Sir Toby said, ‘but Lord Cherleten has persuaded me of the truth of it. In your reports you both used the word “degenerates” to describe the creatures. You were not wrong; only, they were not degenerate humans that you faced, but degenerates of another race. They are ghouls—flesh-eating monsters—descended from their blood-drinking kin as surely as the common mongrel is descended from the wolf. It may not be entirely accurate to call these creatures “vampires”, but if the glove fits, as they say.’