The Undying Legion

by Clay Griffith

  “Right. Now, neither St. George in the East nor St. Mary Woolnoth have hosted a murder. And we are ruling out all other churches as having ritual importance. Correct?”

  Kate raised her hand like a patient student. Simon looked at her in confusion, then gave her a lopsided sarcastic grin. He pointed at her.

  She sat up straight like a schoolgirl. “Yes, Professor Archer, that is correct.”

  “Droll. And Henry is kindly providing watchmen for those two churches.”

  Penny said, “So we’re operating under the assumption that the ritual links the four names and four churches.”

  “Yes, two victims who need justice.” Simon drew his pipe from his mouth. “And two potential victims we need to prevent.”

  “I determined that the victim at St. George’s, in any case, was not drugged so far as I could tell. However, it’s impossible to assume she was a willing participant.” Kate lifted a sheet of paper from the folder. “But there is so little on the two dead women except for what Henry gave us. The first victim, at St. George’s, was named Madeleine Hawley. She was apparently a minor poet who had a few published works. The second, at Christ Church, was named Cecilia de Ronay. She was a courtesan of some note.”

  “De Ronay? Sounds familiar.” Simon tapped his chin. “I believe I knew her.”

  Kate’s face clouded, and Penny glanced away with a smirk. Then Kate shook her head. “Lord knows why that sort of thing still shocks me. Both victims were members of bohemian society. The interesting connection comes because Henry says both women’s bodies were claimed by the same man.”

  “Were the two women related?”

  “Not that he knows of. The bodies were claimed by a man calling himself Rowan Barnes.”

  “Rowan Barnes?” Simon tilted his head. “Why do I know that name?”

  “A prominent Mayfair pimp perhaps?”

  Simon laughed and went to a pile of newspapers on the table, where he began to paw through them, tossing papers over his head.

  “Could you try not to use my house to re-create that bachelor sty of yours on Gaunt Lane?” Kate asked, then continued, “In any case, the police are not interested in solving these murders. Two dead women are considered disposable, clearly.”

  “In their miserable defense, the Metropolitan Police are barely formed and are more skilled at infiltrating reformist groups and pouncing on debtors. Fortunately, we have time to assist them.” He held up a paper in triumph. “Ah! Here we are in the society notices. I remember now. Rowan Barnes oversees the Red Orchid salon.”

  “Salon?”

  “Yes, he’s an artist, apparently quite popular. And this Red Orchid salon is the place to be if you are artistic or intellectual or pretend to be either.”

  “So you’ve been there then?”

  “No.” Simon paused, looking at Kate for signs of sarcasm. He rubbed his thumb over the rune on the bowl of his pipe to fire the tobacco again. “But I should have gone. And now we shall.”

  Charlotte popped up suddenly from behind the sofa. “May I go?”

  Penny leapt to her feet with a shout. “Good God!”

  Kate started with surprise. “Charlotte! How did you get in here? It’s not appropriate for you to listen to this, dear.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re talking about very disturbing subjects. You should go to your room.”

  Charlotte pouted. “No. I want to stay. I don’t like being in my room alone. I’m not upset by what you’re saying. I’ve seen many dead people.”

  Simon gave Kate a disturbed smirk. “Yes, she’s seen many dead people.”

  Charlotte nodded vigorously. “Oh yes! Don’t worry, Mr. Simon. I’m very calm. I saw Gretta tear people to pieces and I could still go to sleep that night.”

  “Perhaps I should leave before I get upset.” Kate took a deep breath. “Charlotte, I want you to go and find Imogen.”

  “But …” the girl began.

  “No,” Kate insisted. “Please, go. This isn’t for you.”

  “But I want to help.” Charlotte scuffed her shoe on the rug and moped around the sofa. “Because of me, you don’t have anybody else.”

  Kate took the girl’s hand. “What do you mean, dear?”

  “Mr. Malcolm. He left because of me, didn’t he?”

  “No, Charlotte.” Kate glanced quickly at Simon and Penny with concern, then gazed intently into the girl’s eyes. “Mr. Malcolm had other affairs to attend to.”

  “He hates me because of what I am, so he left. He was your friend before me.”

  “Hush, dear. He just didn’t understand.” Kate pulled Charlotte close and embraced her.

  The door to the library opened and Malcolm entered. He was covered in mud from riding hard. He dropped his rucksack on the floor and tossed his holsters onto a table. He looked with bemusement at the surprised stares from Penny, Kate, who was hugging Charlotte, and Simon, holding his pipe.

  “Well,” he said quietly, “this is a charming little family tableau. Father. Mother. Sister. Faithful hound.” He paused before nodding toward Aethelred who lounged near the guttering fire, then turned his gaze on Charlotte. “And daughter.”

  “Ah, now the eccentric uncle.” Simon tapped his pipe on the heel of his hand. “We’re complete and cozy and ready for Christmas dinner.”

  Malcolm glanced curiously at the map on the wall on his way to pour a glass of whiskey. “You’ve got a new problem now with all that.”

  Simon motioned several worried servants who had trailed Malcolm into the house back out with a grateful nod, and closed the door again. “Have we?”

  Charlotte grasped Kate’s hand and anxiously watched Malcolm drain the glass, then pour another. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Yes,” the Scotsman said. “I encountered an undead in London. And she had been buried at St. George’s Bloomsbury. I think this ritual murder is causing the dead to rise.” Malcolm drank the second glass with a sense of dramatic satisfaction. He looked from Simon to Kate, and his brow furrowed, confused by their lack of shocked reaction to his announcement. Then he looked angry. “Did you hear me?”

  Penny went quietly to the window and seemed to vanish in the shadows.

  “Yes,” Simon replied, with a concerned eye to the young engineer, “and you’re right. How many undead did you see?”

  “One.” Malcolm looked confused and annoyed. “How many undead do you need for it to be a problem?”

  “Well, Kate and I encountered nearly one hundred of them at Christ Church two nights ago.”

  Malcolm set the glass down sharply and folded his arms.

  “Don’t be cross, Malcolm.” Simon smiled as he slowly refilled his pipe. “I’m sure your one lonely undead was frightening. What did you do with it?”

  “I destroyed it so it wouldn’t harm anyone. A novel concept with monsters these days, I know.”

  Simon let the comment pass with only a glance at Penny. “Where did you encounter it?”

  The Scotsman hesitated, then mumbled, “In a soup kitchen.”

  “Did you say a soup kitchen? Were you both in line for a meal?”

  Penny chuckled.

  Malcolm returned to the door and lifted his pack. “I see now there’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know. As usual. So I’ll be on my way.”

  “Mr. Malcolm, wait!” Charlotte shouted. “Don’t go!”

  He spun around with a furious glare at the child. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t go.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go.”

  “What?” Malcolm snapped. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll go.” Charlotte looked him with pleading eyes. “I’m better. As long as I can take some wulfsyl with me. I’m fine. We know how much I should take now. You can stay. I’ll go.” Kate reached out, but Charlotte slipped away from her hand. “It’s fine, Miss Kate. He was here first. I just came for wulfsyl. If you’ll let me take some, I can go.”

  Kate stare
d at Malcolm, her accusing eyes flashing between pity and fury.

  “No, Miss Kate, don’t be mad at him,” the girl said. “I don’t mind. I came here for help, and you helped me. See? I’m really very upset, but I’m not changing. See?” Charlotte rubbed her hands along her flowered frock and held them up. “Once I’m gone, you can all be a family again.”

  Malcolm watched the girl as tears began to drip down her face. He exhaled in resignation and dropped his pack on the floor again. “Stop your crying and sit down. Right then, what time is Christmas dinner?”

  Simon put his pipe in his mouth and leaned on the hearth with a contented gaze about the room.

  Chapter 12

  The British Museum was a hive of activity, at least outside. Construction on the marvelous East Wing continued. The Greek Revival edifice was still obscured by scaffolding, with cables dangling, suspending heavy loads of stone and marble. Simon and Kate bypassed the old Montagu House, where the museum’s collection had been displayed for many years, and still was. They made their way across the yard, walking along planks thrown down over the mud. Kate wore a midcalf-length skirt and heavy boots, suitable perhaps for riding but nearly scandalous here. Still, she trudged uncaring across the filthy boards, following Simon, who also wore high boots and rough tweed.

  “A pleasant day.” Simon’s breath misted in the cold. “The museum and tonight a sociable salon. Almost like the old days when I was a bon vivant on the town.”

  Kate hummed. “I’d rather stay at the museum.”

  A shout alerted them to a man standing on a high porch underneath a network of scaffolding. The fellow waved to them so they hopped a few perpendicular timbers, listening to the squelching mud beneath. They both climbed the steps to a young, red-haired man.

  Kate smiled as she took the man’s hand cheerfully. “Thomas, it’s so good to see you. Thomas, this is Simon Archer. Simon, Thomas Clover, an assistant curator for Egyptian and Near Eastern collections. And an old friend of the family.”

  “Mr. Clover,” Simon greeted warmly, “thank you so much for seeing us. I can’t tell you how eager I am to see the new wing.”

  “Then let’s do.” Thomas escorted the two inside the East Wing, the new home to the King’s Library. In the vast gallery, sunlight streamed from windows set high in the walls, highlighting the wood panels. They moved through the quiet maw with the unfinished plaster ceiling twenty feet above their heads and passed two columns into a completed section with walls crowded with display shelves. Row upon row of books and papers filled the gallery. Thomas extended his arm to a table in a shaft of light, where several heavy folios sat alongside a pile of thick, rolled paper.

  “You asked to see the papers of Nicholas Hawksmoor, yes?” Thomas said to Kate, then with some doubt, “Just Hawksmoor, not Wren?”

  “That’s correct.” She inspected the cracking labels on the spines of the folios and unrolled one of the heavy scrolls. “This is wonderful. Letterbooks and architectural drawings.”

  “That’s all I could find from Hawksmoor. Architecture isn’t, of course, my specialty, but I’m happy to help you, Kate, in any way possible.”

  “It’s exactly what we need,” she said, as Simon settled at the table and pulled one of the heavy books in front of him. “I do have another question that’s a bit more to your specialty, which is why I contacted you.” Kate pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to Thomas. “Does this look familiar to you?”

  He took the sheet with a gleam of excitement and looked at the hieroglyphics written there. Both Kate and Simon watched with anticipation. Finally, he said, “It does.”

  “What is it?” Kate asked quickly. “It’s beyond me.”

  “I don’t know.” Thomas scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It seems familiar, but I can’t remember why.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “This symbol here is an Old Kingdom variation for the word rise. However, these other symbols are unknown to me, and they could alter how one reads rise. So it might not be the rise after all; it might be a letter in a completely different word. It’s a difficult language and script, as you know.”

  “Could you look into it for me?” Kate asked. “I would be grateful for any light you can shed on it.”

  “Of course.” He concentrated on the paper. “I just wish I could remember where I thought I saw it. Most peculiar.”

  “I’m sure it will come to you.” Kate sat across from Simon and reached for another folio.

  “Well,” Thomas said, backing away, “I’ll leave you two to it. Oh, Kate, how is your sister?”

  Kate bolted up straight and turned abruptly. “What do you mean?”

  Thomas pulled back in surprise at the vigor of her reaction. “I … I just wondered. I haven’t seen her in several years.”

  “Oh.” Kate took a deep breath and gave an embarrassed laugh under Simon’s steady gaze. “Oh, I see. Yes. I’m sorry. Imogen is well. She … she sends her best wishes.”

  “Does she?” The young man brightened. “If she is ever in London, I would be grateful to call on her for tea.”

  “I don’t …” Kate began, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll tell her. I fear she has little time for the city these days.”

  “I’m sure.” Thomas sighed. “She’s probably engaged to some handsome squire, eh?”

  Kate laughed and made to turn back to the book. The curator coughed with embarrassment and walked away. When his steps vanished, Kate put her face in her hands.

  “Oh God. I had forgotten how fond Thomas was of Imogen. I handled that terribly. He probably thinks I’m a lunatic or trying to keep him away from my sister.”

  “Don’t worry, Kate.” Simon tapped the book. “For now let’s go to work. We’ll handle that when it becomes an issue.”

  She sighed and nodded. Hours passed in near silence as they went through the material with only occasional questions or comments of interest. Endless letters about government approval and patronage. Notes about materials. Recommendations for craftsmen. Debates on designs, revisions, and more debates. Yet no mention of the four mysterious names. No discussion of Egyptian symbols.

  Kate finally closed the last letterbook and pushed it aside. She rose with a groan of fatigue and took up the heavy rolls of plans. She flipped through them until she found long sheets with the drawings of St. George’s Bloomsbury.

  “The altar has moved,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The altar. On the original drawings it’s in the east nave where the body was found. They must have moved the altar later and realigned the church.”

  “Interesting. The killer knew that. Or simply knew to perform the killing at the point of greatest power.” Simon stood and came around to her shoulder. He inspected all the marks on the plans, as well as those of the other three churches where the mysterious names were carved.

  Kate said, “I haven’t seen anything suspicious or illuminating.”

  “Neither have I, but sometimes illumination is hidden.” Simon went to another table and fetched a pen and ink. He rolled out the sketches of Christ Church and anchored the corners. Bending over close, he began to write a series of precise runes across the bottom of the sheet. Then he passed his hand over them and spoke a word. The runes flared.

  Green light rose from the paper. Hidden runic symbols appeared. The four mysterious names showed brightly, with lines anchoring them to the four cardinal points of the church. A string of hieroglyphs wrote themselves across the top of the plans. Simon recognized several of the symbols as those branded into the victims’ hearts.

  Kate seized him by the shoulder with a cry of delight. “Is it what I think it is?”

  Simon stared into the green aura. “Yes. This is Byron Pendragon’s work. He warded those four churches with Egyptian magic. The spells of that land are some of the most powerful ever written. From what I know, most scribes, if they used Egyptian sources, only used versions diluted by later changes, particularly by the Gnostics or
Hermetics. Look here, he’s scrawled a note to Hawksmoor: Strengthen the stone or they will not be held. He was concerned about the ability of the construction materials to contain the magic. My God! And the fact that the note is mystically obscured shows that Hawksmoor was one of the craft.”

  “Who will not be held?” Kate asked.

  “That he doesn’t say.” Simon gestured over the glowing symbols and he watched the notations written by the hand of the greatest scribe in the history of the world vanish into invisibility again.

  Chapter 13

  From the hansom, Simon studied the dingy home that was the hive of the Red Orchid salon. It was a sprawling, wood frame two-story built in the era of the Restoration Stuarts. Sturdy to be sure, but hardly fresh, just like the decaying parish around it.

  The Red Orchid was the shining light of London art. It had hardly been a year since Rowan Barnes rose from the faceless mezzotint mob to be the anointed new genius. His salon became the center for all those who sought to express themselves in paint or words or dance or song or declamation, or sought to have relationships with those who did.

  “Not much to look at from the outside,” Simon said. “I should have made an appearance long ago.”

  Malcolm snorted derisively.

  “You, sir,” Simon explained cheerfully, with a deliberate flourish of his wrist, “don’t understand the burden of being a mysterious gentleman of leisure. I must appear.”

  “Why?” Malcolm asked.

  Simon looked at him and at Kate, who was inspecting vials in her bag. “Let me ask you both. Had you heard my name before you met me?”

  “Yes,” they both answered.

  “There you are. We weren’t acquainted. I did nothing important so far as you knew. But you had heard of me. That’s why I appear.”

  The Scotsman shook his head. “I thought secrecy was vital to you sorcerers.”

  “It is. No one knows I’m a sorcerer; they just know I’m a rich playboy with strange interests and a dark past. A rich playboy. Doors open. More importantly, mouths open.”

  “The only mouth open is usually yours.” Malcolm swung out of the hansom. “Losh, let’s go in before Barnes’s art goes out of fashion.”