Horatio Lyle

by Webb, Catherine

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. He had the unnaturally soft, lilting voice of most adults confronted unexpectedly by children - the voice of someone who can’t believe that he was never sophisticated and suave, and has consequently blanked the memory of youth in any form.

  ‘I’m . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I’m Tess . . . Lady Teresa . . . of . . . of Derbyville!’

  ‘Of what mise-en-scène is Derbyville?’

  A small, nervous frown passed across Tess’s face. ‘Derbyville . . . don’t exist, do it?’

  ‘I must confess I am quite ignorant of its location.’

  Tess thought about this. ‘Well then, you ain’t knowin’ nothin’, ain’t you? And I never done nothin’!’

  With this proud and happy declaration, Tess turned, swept the two porcelain swans off their stands, dropped them into her pocket with a defiant glare, turned and ran.

  Mr Hardy watched her go and breathed a little sigh. ‘Miraculous,’ he whispered, half closing his eyes and contemplating the burgeoning of womanhood. ‘Miraculous.’

  The main hall of the Norfolk Club was a jungle. Potted plants dominated each table and chair and the central floor could only be found by navigating a maze of greenery. Ladies in luscious gowns and men in formal frock coats stood talking in low voices. Lyle followed the sound of a distant string quartet, while at his side Thomas nodded and smiled at people and commented out of the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s Lord Worthy talking to Mrs Forltay, a lady of . . .’

  ‘A certain repute?’ hazarded Lyle.

  ‘Uh, and that’s Count and Countess Langscheid, who fled to England following the uprisings in Bavaria in ’forty-eight, and liked it so much they bought Yorkshire.’

  ‘What, all of it?’

  ‘The less fashionable half only, sir.’

  ‘My goodness.’

  They stepped from a passageway of vibrant green, and looked out at a dance floor laid with wide, dark red boards. Here the crowds of people were thicker, intermingling with each other in a ritual of back-and-forth that was almost a dance in itself, while a thoroughly ignored string quartet played in a corner. Lyle looked around, and found himself staring into a pair of bright green eyes belonging to a lady. She wore a green ball gown the deep, rich colour of leaves in a summer dusk, and her face was diamond shaped. He put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder and muttered in his ear, ‘Who’s that?’

  Thomas squinted at the lady, and seemed to freeze up. Lyle nudged him harder, sensing something heavy dragging at the boy as he did, and muttered, ‘Thomas!’

  Thomas swallowed. ‘Sorry, sir. That’s Lady Lacebark, sir.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘She is an acquaintance of my father, sir. And of Lord Moncorvo.’

  ‘Is that . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lyle stared at the man standing next to Lady Lacebark, in a way that made Thomas deeply uncomfortable at such unconscious rudeness. Lyle saw a man dressed in black silk, except, he noticed, for the white gloves, only slightly discoloured at the end of one finger with something that might have been blood. His eyes, like Lady Lacebark’s, were a vibrant green, and he stood not only taller and slimmer than all other men in the room, but with an authority that Lyle had scarcely seen before. As if growing aware of Lyle’s stare, Moncorvo half-turned and glanced across. For a second his green eyes fixed on Lyle’s face. Lyle saw a slight jerk pass through the man’s expression, in something that might have been surprise. Lyle turned quickly away, guiding the rapt Thomas. ‘Come on, lad.’

  He dragged Thomas into a corner, refusing to look back, and said, ‘Are there private rooms here?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Private rooms! For members to use, stay in, sleep in?’

  ‘Erm . . . yes, sir.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  Thomas nodded at a small door on the other side of the hall. ‘Through there, sir.’

  ‘Right. I’m going to have a look. Meanwhile, mingle.’

  ‘Mingle?’

  ‘Yes. You’re better at it than you think.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Lyle patted him briskly on the shoulder, and darted away across the floor. Thomas stood alone for a second, and wondered what his father would say when he found out.

  Lyle padded through the back corridors, looking at the name plates over the doors. Lord Such and Such, Lady Thing, Mr Someone Esquire; he found a doorplate engraved, on brass, Lord Moncorvo. He tried the smooth wooden handle. It was locked. He sighed and dug into his pockets, pulling out a bundle which he carefully unwrapped. Glancing left and right, from it he pulled out a set of lock picks. For a minute or so he struggled with the lock before something inside very quietly clicked. Lyle opened the door and slid into the room. It was dark, but pulling the dynamo out of his pocket and turning the handle with its low whine, he managed by the subdued glow it gave to locate a lantern. He struck a fat, smelly, smoky match off the sole of his shoe and lit it.

  The room blossomed into dim radiance, shadows curling round the walls, and a dull yellow pool of light around the lantern more tiring on the eyes than darkness itself.

  A tall window hung with huge red curtains overlooked the nearby outline of roofs and the treetops of St James’s Square. At one end of the room a portrait of a man with intense green eyes and an unfriendly expression stared out at Lyle. One hand rested on a sword hilt, the other was wrapped in a suggestive way around a small blue-green Globe. Lyle ignored the portrait and rushed over to the desk beneath it, to try the drawers. Two opened up to reveal merely an empty pad of paper, a small pouch of tobacco and a little loose change. He resisted the urge to steal the money, although he was more inhibited by the thought of Tess’s teasing than a moral compulsion. He reached a locked drawer and drew out the lock picks again, wiggling them against the simpler, well-oiled springs in its lock. The lock turned more easily, and he opened the drawer. In it was just one object, wrapped in light blue calico. Lyle opened it up on the desk. It was a knife with a long, slim blade made of lightly tarnished brass. He frowned, holding it up to the dim lamplight, and touched the edge of the blade. It was sharpened to the thickness of a lightning strike and he thought about the neat slit running through Carwell’s neck. There was a faint sound outside the room. Immediately he wrapped the knife up again, slipped it into his pocket, pushed the drawer shut, stood up.

  ‘Why, Mister Lyle, who would have thought you’d be here?’

  The voice was almost mocking. It was the voice silk would have had, could it speak. Lyle looked up into a pair of intense green eyes that seemed to fill the room despite the dinginess of the lantern light, and felt something churn in his stomach. He forced a smile on to his face. ‘Forgive me, my lady, I seem to have got lost.’

  Lady Lacebark carefully shut the door behind her, and stood between it and him. She smiled, tilting her head on one side. The lantern light fell on her hair, the colour of a setting sun, and made it glow. ‘Horatio Lyle,’ she said in a more powerful voice, and Lyle was surprised to hear his name. ‘Are you being difficult? ’

  He backed away as she moved towards him, and seeing this, she stopped. Her smile became almost cruel. ‘Look at me, Horatio Lyle.’

  He looked at her. He couldn’t not.

  ‘Do you know me?’

  ‘You are Lady Lacebark, m’lady.’

  ‘Do you know what I am?’

  Lyle wasn’t sure how to answer this question. He shrugged half-heartedly. ‘I can hazard a guess.’

  ‘I am a lady of great power, Horatio Lyle.’

  ‘That was certainly going to be one of my guesses, m’lady.’

  ‘Stand still!’

  He stood still. He’d hardly noticed that he’d been backing away. She moved slowly towards him. Ten paces. Five, talking in a low, purring voice. ‘Moncorvo wasn’t pleased to see you here, Horatio.’

  ‘Well, forgive me for saying so, but it probably reflects his disposition more than mine.’

  ‘Where is the
Plate, Horatio Lyle?’

  The question took him completely offguard. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t try to fight it, Horatio,’ she murmured, five paces, three, from him. ‘You know we’ll find Bray soon, you probably know where the Plate is, a man like you, a detective, who can live in all this iron, breathe all this iron, think in iron cogs clicking around iron wheels, you must know where it is now.’ Almost next to him now. Lyle realized he had backed up against a wall, and that it wasn’t going to bend to let him move. He wondered if he was going to die. He could see both of her hands, but in the dim lamplight, and with those eyes, he wasn’t sure if that counted for anything. She was right in front of him. She reached up slowly towards his face, a long white hand. ‘Give us the Plate, Horatio Lyle. You know you cannot refuse.’

  Her fingers brushed his cheek and instantly froze. Her pale face, already standing out in the darkness, suddenly turned whiter, even faintly green. She hissed in a voice that had become filled with shards of glass, ‘What is this?’

  Lyle grabbed her hand, small in his own. She bent away from him, snatching it away and staggering back, no longer dignified. She stared at him in horror. ‘You brought iron in here?’

  Lyle felt the weight of the dynamo and its small iron magnet in his pocket. ‘Iron is everywhere, ma’am,’ he heard himself whisper.

  She backed off another pace, clenching her hands into fists to stop them shaking. ‘You’re a fool, Lyle! You’re just a weak human like the rest of them; you cannot hope to beat us! It is as futile as hoping to stop the river wearing away the stone, the sky passing overhead, the sea rolling into the land, the leaf from falling!’ Her eyes narrowed in hatred, and Lyle remembered, don’t look at the eyes. He thought of Carwell’s slit throat, and at once became aware of each drop of blood passing through his own very exposed throat, and the likely use of the knife in his pocket.

  Lady Lacebark took an uneven step towards him, fingers opening out like claws. Lyle fumbled through his pockets, brought out a tube, reached up to thumb the cork off and . . .

  There was a knock at the door. Cartiledge peered in. He saw Lady Lacebark and he saw Lyle, and turned red. ‘Forgive me, sir, ma’am . . . I was looking for her ladyship. There is a Mr Dew at the door to see you, my lady. Shall I admit him?’

  Lady Lacebark shot Lyle a look of pure poison, pushed past Cartiledge and swept out of the room. Lyle sagged against the wall, relieved, but not entirely sure why. He saw Cartiledge staring at him.

  ‘Once again, sir, I must apologize.’

  To the man’s surprise, Lyle strode forward, slipping the tube back into his pocket, and shook Cartiledge firmly by the hand. ‘Sir, I owe you an eternal debt.’ He turned and ran down the corridor, towards the main door.

  Tess was waiting outside by the hansom cab in furious impatience as Lyle and Thomas emerged. ‘Come on, come on, come on! They’ve already gone!’

  ‘Which way?’ snapped Lyle.

  Tess indicated a carriage just disappearing round the corner. Then, to Lyle’s dismay, she turned and pointed in the opposite direction, at a carriage hurtling eastwards.

  ‘Which is which?’

  ‘That one’s got Moncorvo and Lacebark in it,’ she said, pointing furiously at the carriage heading east, ‘and that one’s got this man what was wearin’ all this black cloak and red lining and had really horrid teeth, all fish-like.’

  ‘Driver, follow that carriage!’

  ‘You sure? I mean, it’s quite late and the lass might be wantin’ to get her sleep.’

  ‘What is it about people being so unhelpful - follow that carriage !’

  The three of them and the dog bundled inside and the carriage trundled off westward, then north as all the while Tess babbled, ‘I saw the lady and the lord go into the hall and they talked with this man there with horrid teeth, and I thought Ah-ha - what would you do if I weren’t there to think these things, Mister Lyle? - an’ I saw ’em go outside and the lord and the lady told the man with the teeth to “Come back with it or not come at all” an’ they were the words an’ all, an’ I thought Ah-ha again, Mister Lyle, ’cos I’m really a lot more useful than your lack of paying me might suggest, an’ . . .’

  ‘Teresa! I will give you a whole sovereign to enjoy your proud achievement, so long as you don’t enjoy it now!’

  Tess, satisfied with this, sat back in the carriage, and looked smug.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Thomas as they sped through the dark, empty streets.

  Lyle pulled an object out of his pocket. It was the brass knife. ‘This mean anything to either of you?’

  Tess looked at Lyle with a frown. ‘Oh yes, Mister Lyle, ’cos I can just look at things, I can, and know that this were the knife what killed the bigwig who hired the horse what ran from the house what caught fire where the lady kept the silver an’ why it means you mustn’t sit down heavy on a beetroot, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘Thank you, Teresa.’

  ‘No problem, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘Thomas, do you have any insights to add to this staggering conclusion?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s familiar but I don’t know where I’ve seen it. I’m sorry that I can’t help you. I hope you won’t think that I . . .’ He realized Tess and Lyle were staring at him.

  On the floor the sleeping Tate rolled over, sticking a limp paw uselessly into the air, and snored. Lyle said finally, ‘Listen. This is getting a little bit . . . irregular. I’m not sure whether you two shouldn’t take the cab home.’

  ‘Sir! Absolutely not!’ said Thomas, sitting up straight.

  Tess said, ‘You got a sovereign on you, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Not on me, no.’

  ‘Then I ain’t leavin’.’

  ‘It would be shameful,’ continued Thomas, oblivious of Tess, ‘to fail in our duties after this amount of work, and you may have need of us. I can assist you in gaining access and information; Teresa here can also help; and I feel that our duties as citizens of this great nation demand that we . . .’

  ‘He’s stayin’ too,’ said Tess helpfully.

  ‘People are running around with sharpened knives!’ snapped Lyle.

  No one spoke. Tate snored. Thomas looked down at his shoes. At length Tess, fixing her eyes on Lyle, said in a very quiet voice, ‘Then you’ll need someone to watch your back, won’t you, Mister Lyle?’

  The carriage came to a stop.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bray

  In a small street behind King’s Cross, where the houses on either side of the road squatted like brown caterpillars waiting in vain to turn into butterflies, and where you could look along to see the black sky end before the houses did, at a late hour of this cold, foggy night, an observer might have noted a number of unusual things happen in the clammy darkness.

  First, there was the creak of a shoe and someone said, ‘Ow! He trod on my foot!’

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘You trod on my foot!’

  ‘I’m really very sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘Shush!’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  Then there was a shuffling noise. The sound of metal clinking.

  ‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’

  ‘This is where the carriage went.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘Do you see any other houses with the lights still burning?’

  ‘What’s that sound?’

  ‘That’s Tate.’

  ‘How can you tell, sir?’

  ‘It’s the low whimpering sound of self-pity indicative of someone standing on his ear.’

  ‘Goodness, I am so sorry.’

  ‘Thomas, perhaps you just ought to stand very still and . . . and keep a look out.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do it!’

  ‘Teresa, you come with me.’

  A sound of mud squishing underfoot. A brief shadow darting across the light from a window.

  ‘Teresa?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’

&
nbsp; ‘Can you hear anything?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Listenin’! Shush!’

  A slightly taken aback ‘Sorry.’

  And from beyond the narrow yellow gap under a wooden door, another voice, shaking with terror. ‘Who are you? What do you want? Look, if it’s about Carwell I don’t know where he is! He had the goods, find him!’

  And then a new voice, dry and cruel. ‘Mr Bray?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Mr Dew. You are a very difficult man to find, Mr Bray. Mrs McVicar paid with her mind to find you.’

  ‘No. I don’t know what you mean!’

  ‘You have the Plate, Mr Bray. We know Carwell gave it to you. Did you know Carwell is now dead? And young Jack, who hid in the sarcophagus as his brother waited impatiently outside - he was the first to die. Did you know young Jack, Carwell’s brother, Mr Bray?’

  ‘No . . . I . . . oh God . . . look, I swear, I . . .’

  ‘What is this? Why is there still iron on him?’

  ‘It’s his crucifix, Mr Dew. We are not proud of our weakness. Perhaps with gloves we might . . .’

  ‘Cowards! Fools! You are afraid of a little iron? It isn’t even the burning iron, the sickening iron, the magnetic iron, it’s just a lump!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A faint metallic click, the clatter of a footstep. Lyle looked up sharply and saw a shadow hastily retreating into the darkness on the other side of the street - but too late.

  ‘What was that? Mr Leaf?’

  The door opened. Behind it sat the man who had to be Bray, his round face vacant, mouth open, eyes staring at nothing, although he looked unharmed, just sitting passively, in a chair. Three men with bright green eyes stood around him, while behind him stood a fourth who could only be Mr Dew: teeth like a fish, eyes lit up like emeralds, bright red hair stuck straight up, as if he had been born shocked.

  Caught in the light sprawling from the open doorway was Tess. She looked up into the surprised expressions of the men. ‘Erm . . . hot cross bun?’ she hazarded.